


Fear of Flying

by mokuyoubi



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco, The Academy Is...
Genre: Alternate Universe - Real World, Angsty Schmoop, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 20:00:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mokuyoubi/pseuds/mokuyoubi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spencer Smith, part-owner and celebrated head chef of noted restaurant Panic! At The Disco, is talented, rich, and gorgeous. The rest of the staff can't even seem to remember that Brendon works there.</p><p><i>“You’re really good at that,” Jon observed.<br/>“Good at what?” Brendon asked, swirling his spoon in his dish.  The ice cream was a melted mess by now.<br/>“Finding excuses not to come to the party even when you’re invited, not letting Spencer get to know you even when he asks you a direct question about yourself,” Jon said casually.<br/>Brendon dropped his spoon and glared across the table.  “What are you trying to say?”<br/>“I’m saying that you don’t </i>want<i> anyone getting any closer to you,” Jon said.  “How long were you with your last boyfriend?” </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Fear of Flying

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my help_haiti winner saba1789’s request for an AU with cook!Spencer working at or maybe even owning a restaurant + waiter!Brendon, on whom Spencer has a (seemingly) unrequited crush. There could be enforced having to spend time with each other and some pining and then a happy end.  
> This is _kind of_ that fic… I hope you like it, babe.  
>  Love and thanks to my terrific betas for being so patient with me, and to reni-days for cheerleading and making me smile, even though she was miserable.  
> Please see end of fic for extended notes.

There was a message from Jon on Brendon’s voicemail when he got out of his last session saying, “Seriously, I’m not even joking, don’t be late today. Seriously.” 

It didn’t do a lot for the anxious pit in his stomach that had been building since he’d left the restaurant the previous evening. Jason had set him down just after closing to talk about his habitual tardiness, and it wasn’t fucking fair. 

Brendon was the best waiter at Panic!. He turned the most tables, handled the largest section, and he kept his customers and the cooks happy, and he’d only been with the restaurant for three months. Plus, they _knew_ he had other obligations during the day, which didn’t stop Angela from scheduling him at four even when he wasn’t off until three. 

The train pulled into the station at seven to four and Brendon ran full speed down Fifth Avenue and dodged down the alley, tumbling in the back door with about a minute to spare, vest unbuttoned, tie hanging loosely around his collar. He caught himself on the door frame, punching his team number into the computer before the clock could tick over. 

Andrew gave him a slow once over. “New look,” he drawled. 

“Fuck off,” Brendon muttered. He paused to catch his breath before entering the front of the house, trying to look inconspicuous. There were only a few patrons—a couple tucked into a booth in the back, a young man at the bar, and a group of four businessmen—but that would change within the half-hour, and then they’d be so busy Brendon wouldn’t have a moment to himself until after ten. 

Brendon caught Jon’s eye before ducking into the bathroom and was still fumbling with his tie when Jon came in, gave him a fond smile, and knocked his hands away to do it for him. “How long have you been working here?” Jon teased. 

“Shut up,” Brendon said, and felt himself blushing. He did up the buttons on his vest, fingers strangely numb-feeling. “You’re the one that sent me the freak-out message. What the hell?” 

“See that guy in the back, with the blonde?” Jon asked, finishing the knot and tugging it into place. 

Brendon nodded at his own reflection; he’d gelled his hair on the train ride over, and it had withstood his mad dash fairly well, considering how profusely he was sweating from the combined physical activity and heat. He slicked back the little curl that had slipped free and dabbed the sweat from his brow. 

“That’s Ross,” Jon said. 

“Ryan Ross?” Brendon asked, poking his head out the door for a better look. All he could really see was a head of brown curls, bent close to his companion, and a suit that fit nicely with the speakeasy décor. 

“Smith’s been going crazy all morning. Apparently Ross didn’t call ahead, just shows up out of the blue with his new fiancée, who he never told Smith about…”

“Shit,” Brendon whispered. 

“Yeah, so, heads up, dude,” Jon said, tapping him lightly on the chest. 

“Thanks, yeah,” Brendon said. 

Jon went back to the bar, giving him a thumbs-up for encouragement. Brendon shoved his bag in a locker in the break room, grabbed an apron, and pushed open the doors to the chaos of the kitchen. 

Spencer was at his station, muttering about lobster, and Brendon really wanted to ask if he was all right, but it didn’t look like a good time. Last night, Spencer had mentioned training with Brendon to be an aboyeur for his dishes, starting with a lesson on garnishing. Now, he sort of doubted that was going to happen. He swallowed his disappointment, and the urge to lay his hand on Spencer’s back in comfort as he passed; Spencer didn’t even spare him a look or a word of greeting. 

Greta gave him a lop-sided grin when he took a seat across the table from her. Alicia, Gabe, and Adam were already waiting, and Brendon held his breath, ready for one of them to comment on his lateness, but none of them did. It took them twenty minutes to go through the evening’s menu, and then Bill was poking his head into the back, telling Adam and Alicia they had a table, and Gabe and Brendon had been double-seated, and dinner had begun. 

~*~

Despite what the name might imply, Panic! at the Disco was not a disco at all. Rumour had it that Ross had come up with the name, and since he was never around to confirm or deny, the rumour stood. Ross was also credited for the theme of the place—done up like an authentic speakeasy from the prohibition, Panic! featured live music, dancing, interesting and inventive cocktails, and of course, haute cuisine. Jon said Spencer and Ross had grown up in Vegas, and as a Vegas native himself, Brendon wasn’t surprised that they’d come up with the theme they had. 

What really kept people coming was the atmosphere—from the art deco design and luxuriously upholstered furniture to the period-accurate costumes of every staff member in the front and back of the house, down to the requisite password and list of rules for dining (including no cell phones), Panic! was a hedonistic delight for all the senses. 

In Ross’ absence, Pete took care of the day-to-day concerns for the front of the house, scheduling the waiters, maître d’, bartenders and entertainment, and took care of promoting the restaurant, while as co-owner, Spencer managed the kitchen staff, created the menus, and made sure the restaurant was a critical success thanks to his skill as a chef. The combination was a hit, with five-star ratings in all the guides of mention, awards lining Spencer and Pete’s offices, and a packed house every night of the week. 

Tonight, Patrick was on stage at the piano, playing the blues. The track lighting along the layers of the stage was dim, casting Patrick in soft shadows. Later all the lights would be up, the blue columns with their golden sunburst, and there would be big band music, but the early diners preferred a more relaxing sound with their meals. 

Brendon was dying to get up on the stage—had been since he’d first stepped into the restaurant for his interview. He’d mentioned to Pete when he’d been hired, in a hopeful sort of way, that he could play some instruments too, but he was pretty sure Pete had forgotten as soon as Brendon had left his office. It wasn’t like they needed any more performers. Between Patrick, Ryland, Alex, Travis and Amanda, things were pretty well covered. 

Still, Brendon longed to get his hands on the polished maple of the Steinway, to lay his fingers along the ivory, see what sort of sounds he could coax from it. So far it had been impossible. Patrick guarded that thing like it was his kid—understandable, seeing how much it was worth—and he kept it working just as it had when it was made in the 20s. At night, even after they’d closed, Patrick would sit at the bench, playing for them as they cleaned up. But one of these nights, Brendon was going to get his turn.

Not tonight, though. He was double-seated with a table of two and a table of six, and it would only be a few minutes before he was double-seated again. He greeted the guests with his most charming smile, effectively forestalling any complaints about a wait, and began to list the menu from memory. 

There was the foie gras terrine in a buttery crust with raspberry sauce and the black barley risotto with enoki mushrooms, epazote and carrot purée; duck liver mousse and squab with rosemary infused camembert; sea scallops in white wine sauce with green grapes and lamb with squash and walnuts. For dessert there were strawberries and balsamic served with almond crisps and pear sorbet, the almond cake with caramelised bananas and mocha mousse in a chocolate shell, and the chocolate gnocchi with rhubarb purée. Jon and Joe were ready to start every meal with cocktails made from hand-squeezed fruit and top shelf liquor, and matched every dish with the perfect wine. 

Maybe the best part of working at Panic! was getting fed. Every night Greta or Jason would make a dish for all the employees to share, and after the customers had gone, someone was bound to break out the alcohol. Jon said it was important for training, that everyone had to know how the wines tasted with the food to sell them, right? Brendon sort of loved Jon. 

If they were lucky, sometimes Spencer would make them dinner. Greta and Jason were excellent cooks, but they made quick, easy meals. Often it was things like spaghetti tossed in a buttery sauce with shrimp, or a spinach salad with romaine hearts, cranberries and feta cheese—simple, but delicious. But Spencer couldn’t do anything simple in the kitchen, not even for the employees. The meals he made them were just as complex and mouth-watering as the meals he put on the menu. 

Before coming to work at Panic! Brendon hadn’t even heard of half the items on the menu, and the most adventurous he got was ordering the Asian salad at Applebee’s. Still, his mother had always said his stomach was the way to his heart, and if Spencer Smith’s cooking was any indication, she’d been right on the money. Because Brendon maybe sort of loved Spencer, too. Or maybe more than sort of. 

Some nights Brendon could find a chance to steal a bite between serving his tables, but tonight there was no break. He was constantly running from the bar to the kitchen and back to his tables again. In the back, Spencer, Greta, Andrew and Arica moved as if their every action was part of a well-choreographed dance, dodging out of each others’ paths, passing dishes back and forth, and cleaning up any spills immediately. Spencer was serious about safety in his kitchen. 

Andrew passed over the tapas for table seven with a wink and Brendon spared him a smile, snagging them and hurrying out the door. Mark was bussing one of Brendon’s tables and Brendon was on his way to fetch the cocktails for table five when a hand caught Brendon by the apron and tugged him toward booth three. 

“Hey, kid,” the voice said, and Brendon pasted on his widest, fakest smile, faltering a little when he realised it was Ross. 

The guy was good-looking, with big eyes and a full mouth twisted up in a sort of haughty smirk. His fiancée was seriously gorgeous, the kind of perfect that Brendon thought of as only existing in magazines and movies, and up close Brendon could see how finely they were both dressed, and the huge diamond on her finger. Brendon knew, in a vague way, that Spencer was wealthy, but Spencer never flaunted it like this. It just brought home what incredibly different worlds Brendon and Spencer were from.

“Mister Ross,” Brendon said, with as much deference as he could muster. It wasn’t much. Seriously, who would leave this place—leave _Spencer_? 

Ross arched a brow. “You must be Brendon,” he said, and the sick feeling in Brendon’s stomach from earlier was back. He nodded and tried to look like a good employee—tall-backed, smiling but not too broadly, meeting Ross’ gaze. Ross shrugged after a long moment. “Look, tell Spencer I’m sick of waiting. We’ll stop by tomorrow before our meeting.” 

“Of course, Sir,” Brendon said. Ross pursed his lips like he was annoyed, but he waved Brendon off in dismissal, and Brendon hurried off to the bar. “Jon,” he said, with his biggest puppy eyes, “can you run my order for table five?” 

Jon rolled his eyes, but Brendon knew that was as good as agreement. He went into the kitchen, dodging Gabe on his way out with a tray. Spencer was finishing off an order—his last aboyeur had left before Brendon had started working and a new one had never been hired. Spencer liked seeing his dishes from beginning to end himself, and used the vacant position as an excuse. He was a control freak about his creations; he didn’t like the idea of anyone else getting a chance to mess them up. 

Brendon paused to watch for a moment. Spencer put together his plates like they were pieces of art—drizzling savoury sauces in intricate patterns, grouping the canapé just right and laying the scallops neatly in place on top. It was relaxing, in a way, that no matter how rushed everything else was, in those moments Spencer slowed down, took his time, made it perfect. 

“Hey,” Brendon said. 

“Hey,” Spencer said back absently, slender fingers tweaking a spring of cilantro just right so it lay like a ribbon over the foie gras. 

“Um,” Brendon bit his lip. “So, Mister Ross wanted me to tell you he was leaving, and that he’d be back tomorrow before his meeting.” 

“Hmm?” Spencer said, and blinked up at Brendon like he hadn’t understood a word of what had been said. “Oh, right.” He rolled his eyes. “And of course he can’t be bothered to stick his head back here and tell me himself. Thanks, Brendon.” 

Brendon couldn’t help the little flush of pleasure at Spencer’s gratitude. God, he was such a fucking girl. He stood there awkwardly, wishing he could somehow stretch the conversation out. But then Alicia ducked between them to snag the plates and Greta yelled for Brendon to get some more heirlooms from the walk-in and Spencer gave Brendon a distracted smile before turning back to his work. 

By nine Adam was cut and by nine-thirty Alicia had gone, and it was down to two tables for Gabe and one for Brendon, finishing up the main courses. Part of the experience was having the waiters anticipate all of the guests’ needs, which meant that after the orders were placed at the beginning of the meal, it was up to Brendon to know just when to drop them in the kitchen and present them at the table. 

He headed into the back, where things were quieter now. Greta was in the office going over some papers, Arica and Andrew were breaking down their stations, and Bob was catching up with the dishes from the dinner rush, sparing Brendon a quick flash of a smile on his way in. Brendon tried to clear his dishes as much as possible; he didn’t envy Bob his job at _all_. 

Spencer was preparing the desserts for Brendon’s last table and glanced up and back down quickly when Brendon entered, concentrating on extracting the almond cake from its ramekin. “Brendon, shit, I entirely forgot about your training tonight.” 

Brendon tried to look nonchalant, posing against Spencer’s station with his hip out. “It’s no big deal. You seemed stressed earlier.” 

“Part of being best friends with Ryan Ross,” Spencer said wryly. “Come here, I can at least show you this.” 

“What if I fuck it up?” Brendon asked, eyeing the cake nervously. 

Spencer lips quirked up just a little. One of these days, Brendon was going to see Spencer smile for real. “That’s why I make extra. Come here.” 

Brendon came around to Spencer’s side of the counter, taking the plate and cake Spencer passed him. Brendon watched Spencer as he placed the cake and scooped the mousse atop it in a neat little swirl. Brendon’s came out looking more like a lump. 

“So, is, um, Mister Ross back to stay?” Brendon asked, trying to copy the way Spencer sprinkled the coconut shavings over the mousse and positioned the chocolate shell at a jaunty sort of angle. 

“You have to stop calling him Mister Ross. It makes me think of his dad. And no, he isn’t back to stay. Ryan isn’t the sort to stay in one place for very long.” Spencer paused, looking at Brendon’s dessert with a critical eye. “We can dress it up with the syrup,” he said finally. 

“So he’s just here to visit?” _God, Brendon, could you be more nosy_? 

Spencer sighed and adjusted the banana halves around the cake. “He’s just gotten engaged, and he wants to have the engagement party here. This Wednesday.” 

Wednesdays were the only days that Panic! closed. Most of the staff rotated, but Greta, Pete, and Spencer worked every day the restaurant was open, and Wednesdays were the least busy, so it made sense. “Wow, short notice,” Brendon commented. 

“Yeah, and you should see the menu he wants,” Spencer said. “I have no idea when I’m going to have the chance to get this all put together, plus I’m going to have to bribe anyone to come in.” 

“I can help,” Brendon said automatically. “I mean, I want to.” 

Spencer gave him a tired half-smile. “Don’t you take classes?” 

Brendon suppressed the urge to sigh. It wasn’t Spencer’s fault that _no one_ ever paid any attention to what Brendon said and therefore got his second-hand information _wrong_. “Yeah,” he said instead, trying not to sound glum. “I have classes. But I’m off tomorrow. If you needed help getting stuff together.” 

“It wouldn’t be fair to ask you to come in on your day off. Thanks anyway, though,” Spencer said. “I’ll figure something out.” He finished drizzling the caramel sauce around the edges of the plate and presented it to Brendon. Brendon turned his own plate for Spencer to see, grimacing a little. 

“You should have seen my first attempt at garnishing desserts,” Spencer told him and Brendon couldn’t help but smile. “Hurry up and run these, and we can share yours.” 

Brendon didn’t need to be told twice and when he came back Spencer already had spoons and two glasses of milk waiting. “You know,” Brendon started, then took a bite and momentarily lost his train of thought, eyes slipping closed in bliss. 

When he blinked his eyes open, Spencer was watching him with a strange look on his face. He cleared his throat when Brendon met his gaze. “Yes?” he prompted. 

“Oh,” Brendon said, and blushed. “I was gonna say I don’t mind coming in tomorrow. Working here is fun, and besides, it’s Ryan’s engagement. That’s important, right?” 

Spencer tapped his spoon against the plate and said, “You’re a really nice guy, Brendon,” which, shit, was like a fucking kiss of death if Brendon had ever heard one. “I appreciate it.” 

“No biggie,” Brendon said, pushing up from the table and swallowing his glass of milk all in one gulp. “I should go check on my table.” 

Brendon helped Jon break down the bar station after his table had gone, and once all the customers had left, Pete poured drinks for them and for Gabe, and they sat at the bar, divvying out the tips for the bartenders and busboys. 

“Gotta get to Vicky’s before Bill starts texting my ass,” Gabe said when they’d finished, shooting back his bourbon like it was nothing. “See you there, man?” he asked Pete, who tapped his fist to Gabe’s in agreement. “Jon?” 

Jon shot a pointed look at Brendon and Brendon wanted to crawl under the bar and die. Fucking Jon Walker. He wasn’t making things better, unless by better he meant worse. “Oh, dude,” Gabe said, looking at Brendon like he’d never actually seen him before. “I didn’t even think you’d wanna. I mean, you have your classes…”

“I _do_ ,” Brendon agreed vehemently, shooting a glare at Jon. “It’s cool.” 

“Well, I mean, of course you’re welcome,” Gabe said, and the thing was, Brendon believed that Gabe meant it. Still, he didn’t like the idea of being invited only because Jon had called Gabe out on it. 

“I give up on you,” Jon said, after Gabe had left and Pete had wandered into the back. 

“I’m not some charity case,” Brendon muttered. 

“It isn’t fucking charity,” Jon snapped back. “You’re my friend, and you’re cool, and if you’d actually come along and give everyone a chance to get to know you outside of work, they’d think so, too.” 

“Gabe’s right,” Brendon said. “I have class.” 

“Yeah, _class_ ,” Jon said. “You forget who you’re talking to? Plus, I know you have tomorrow off.” 

Brendon ignored him, going down the hall to the break room. Spencer was in his office with the door open and when Brendon walked by, called him in. Spencer looked worn out and too skinny without his jacket on. He was going over the cards from the evening that listed the number of guests for each table, their wait time, their orders, and servers. The maître d’ put them in the computer every night, and Pete hired a bookkeeper, but Spencer still liked to triple-check everything himself. 

“Were you serious about tomorrow?” Spencer asked, and well…it wasn’t anything obvious, but Brendon had been watching him for three months now, and Spencer was usually so calm and in control, and now he seemed sort of desperate. 

And maybe he didn’t see Brendon as anything beyond an employee and a nice guy, but Brendon still wanted to help. He couldn’t stop the excited leap in his chest at the idea of spending more time with Spencer. 

“Definitely,” Brendon assured him, smiling brightly. 

Spencer looked dubious. “I was going to take care of some things in the morning, but I only have a couple hours between market with Greta, and prepping for dinner, and truffles aren’t even in fucking season…”

“I can come in,” Brendon said quickly. “I can do whatever you need.” _Stop sounding so desperate, for a start_ , a voice in his head ordered. 

“He gives me this fucking menu and she says Tuscan theme and what the fuck am I supposed to do with that?” Spencer asked rhetorically. 

Brendon slumped down onto the chair across Spencer’s desk, vaguely intimidated by the room as usual. It looked like it belonged to some big CEO, plus all the awards and certificates and diplomas on the wall served to remind him just how important and distinguished Spencer was. 

“You studied in Italy, didn’t you?” Brendon asked. About the same time Brendon had been slaving over his Ph.D. in Philadelphia, living out of an apartment the size of a shoe box, with a toilet in his closet, and everyone thought he was taking _classes_ , like an undergrad, or some shit. 

“Yeah,” Spencer said, rubbing his face wearily. 

Brendon shifted awkwardly in his seat, wracking his mind for something to say in the pause. “Okay, well, it’s an engagement party, so you need flowers and favours and usually you have disposable cameras, or maybe some of those single-use video cameras…oh, and lots of embarrassing pictures of the future bride and groom to pass around. And since he wants a Tuscan theme, you could have the food laid out family style, so you won’t need a full staff of servers.” 

Spencer gave him another one of those funny looks. “You plan a lot of engagement parties?” he asked. 

Brendon shrugged, twisting his apron in his fists. “I’m the youngest in a big family. I’ve done my fair share.” 

Spencer smiled a tiny smile. “My poor parents. Between me and the twins, I think they’re never going to get to plan one.” Brendon tried to laugh, but he was pretty sure it came out sounding weak. “Well, it sounds like you know what you’re doing. I can put together a list tonight—if you really don’t mind. I mean, this will be overtime pay for you—”

“You don’t need to do that. I just want to help out,” Brendon said, because it was all wrong. No matter how he tried, Spencer kept making sure things stayed professional between them. 

“I can’t let you do that,” Spencer began and Brendon said, “Please, Spencer. I want to.” 

Spencer gave him a long look and finally nodded. “Thank you, Brendon.” 

~*~

Brendon got up early even though he didn’t have work and spent almost an hour trying on various outfits and staring at himself unhappily in his dresser mirror. It was ridiculous—Brendon had given up caring what other people thought of his appearance at a pretty young age. Being raised Mormon meant lots of hand-me-downs and rather plain ones at that. Having established himself as “that religious weirdo,” Brendon managed to ignore the new set of taunts regarding his sexuality that came along when he developed a sense of style of his own and started buying his own clothing. 

But Spencer had only ever seen him in his speakeasy getup, and Brendon would readily admit that it made him look a lot hotter than he actually was. Something about the cut of the vest or the line of the pants, whatever, made him look sleek and a little dangerous. 

On his own and at the centre, Brendon tended towards girl jeans and comfy, oversized t-shirts. His hair, free of gel and in need of a trim, kept falling into his eyes. And okay, no matter how much he wanted to impress Spencer, he was _not_ going to wear contacts unless absolutely necessary. The thing was, though, as much as Brendon loved his red frames, they didn’t do a lot to make him look handsome or mature. 

In the end, he gave up, threw on his old high school soccer shirt over his single pair of actual-facts guy jeans, put on his favourite pair of teal sequined converse, and grabbed a hoodie in case it got cool later on. So far they’d been having a very warm May, but one never knew. Emily, the college girl across the hall who dog-sat Bogart while he was at work, was hung over when Brendon knocked on her door with a sheepish look, but she still took Bogart for him.

Brendon went into the centre even though it was his day off, because being around the kids helped calm him down. Tiffany, one of the more functionally autistic children, spotted him when he came in, and he ended up doing story time, which was not-so-secretly his favourite, anyway. Story time meant getting to dress up and sing and play the guitar or piano. 

Brendon’s parents were constantly on his case about his choice of career, and it hadn’t helped matters when he’d gone to work at a non-profit location. But he’d paid for his master’s and doctorate himself, so he didn’t particularly care what they thought. Besides, Brendon loved music more than anything, and if he could use it to help these kids when nothing else could, then who was he to _charge_ their parents for it. They got enough in grants to cover most of his basic needs, and since he’d started working at Panic!, he was bringing in enough to live comfortably. 

Brendon stayed to help out at snack time, passing out treats and helping to get them cleaned up after. Then, he swallowed down his rising anxiety and headed for the restaurant. He had a little running dialogue going on in his head the entire train ride across town, about how stupid an idea this had been, and how he was going to fuck things up, or how Spencer was going to totally see right through him, and essentially, everything was going to end in disaster, plus Brendon would get fired, and…

Then Brendon turned the corner and Spencer was leaning against the front of the building, hips tilted, head back, and the voices in Brendon’s head were struck speechless. 

The thing about Spencer Smith was that he was perfect. He was smart and successful and sarcastically funny, and he was so fucking talented, not just with food, but according to Jon and Pete at music, too. 

And as if that wasn’t enough, he was seriously the hottest guy Brendon had ever met. Those eyes—Brendon had never seen anyone with eyes so blue, and he had this constant blush in his cheeks. Even in the kitchen, hair limp and greasy under his toque, figure hidden by his jacket, he was attractive. But here, hair glossy bright around his face, dressed in nicely tailored slacks and a black button down—here he was fucking gorgeous. 

Spencer saw Brendon and straightened up, pushing off the wall and running a hand through his hair. It was so shiny in the sunlight. He blinked at Brendon a couple of times and Brendon shifted self-consciously, tugging on the zipper of his hoodie. 

“You have a tattoo,” Spencer said, after a long moment. 

Brendon started, touching his fingers to flowers exposed by the sleeve bunched up near his elbow. He turned his arm so Spencer could see better. “Is it…” Spencer took a step closer, reaching out like he was going to touch, then dropping his hand. His brow furrowed. “Is it a piano?” 

“Yeah,” Brendon said dully. He wanted to tell Spencer more, but the words never seemed to come out right with anyone else. He didn’t see why this time should be any different. 

“Pete mentioned you played a little piano, I think, when he hired you,” Spencer said, and Brendon should have been flattered that Spencer even remembered that, but instead he felt a little crushed. 

“Yeah. Hey, should we go?” Brendon asked, edging down the sidewalk. 

“Oh, yeah, I’ve got an appointment at the florist’s and the liquor store,” Spencer said. He spun his key chain around his finger. “You okay if I drive?” 

“I don’t mind,” Brendon said, and he shouldn’t have been all that surprised to see Spencer’s gleaming silver BMW, but he was anyway. It had probably cost more than Brendon’s college education, with its heated leather seats and tinted windows and built-in GPS. 

“So, what is it you’re studying, anyway?” Spencer asked, once he’d pulled out of his parking spot and into traffic. “I always mean to ask you, and then things are so crazy at work.” 

“Um,” Brendon squeezed his knees together and stared at the stationary cars parallel parked as they drove past. “Actually. Ha. I don’t know where everyone gets this idea I’m in school. I mean, I’ve told them all, but I guess…” Brendon had a very firm rule about not turning emo, particularly not when talking to hot guys, so he cut himself off. 

“Wait, so you’re not in school?” Spencer asked in confusion. 

Brendon shook his head and spoke casually, like it was no big deal. “Nah. I graduated a couple years ago. During the day I work with a non-profit organisation. The work is cool, but I needed a little more income to support myself, so I ended up here.” 

“But then…” Spencer trailed off, darting quick glances at Brendon as he drove. “How _old_ are you?” 

“Twenty-eight,” Brendon sighed. 

“You’re…you’re older than me?” Spencer asked, looking stunned. Brendon got that reaction a lot, when people realised how old he was. Frankly, he didn’t get it. He didn’t think he looked that young. It was seriously annoying, too; he was always getting carded. 

“In all fairness,” Brendon said, “you’re very young to be so well-established.” 

Spencer flushed. “I wasn’t. I didn’t mean it was a bad thing,” Spencer stammered. “Just because you’re not—I mean, non-profit is a good thing.” 

“Sure,” Brendon agreed sourly, thumbing at the rubber of the window gasket. “So, is the florist first?” 

Spencer didn’t answer right away, and eventually Brendon turned his head to see Spencer frowning at the road. He sighed when he caught Brendon watching and nodded. “Yeah.” He drew a breath like he wanted to say something else, but then let it out without speaking. Brendon sat back in his seat, crossed his arms, and told himself it was stupid to be disappointed. 

~*~

It wasn’t strictly a disaster. For one thing, they got a lot taken care of. The florist was helpful and remarkably indulgent considering their out-of-season demands and the short notice. The amount of money Spencer threw around probably didn’t hurt. In the end, they decided on sunflowers and orange blossom roses, with rust and cream hydrangeas, magnolias and olive sprays. 

Many of them had to be shipped overnight and while Brendon didn’t see any exact figures, he still knew Spencer was spending more on fucking flower arrangements than the centre saw in donations in a year. And, well, Spencer couldn’t really be blamed for his lifestyle, but it still made Brendon really uncomfortable. 

The liquor store was slightly better. The bar at Panic! was fully stocked, which took care of the hard liquor, but apparently Ross had made some requests regarding wine. They loaded the trunk of Spencer’s car with twelve cases of a variety of wines Brendon had never even heard of. 

Spencer had to go back to the restaurant to meet up with Ross, but he gave Brendon the company card and asked him to take care of the favours and decorations, giving him a list of colours, patterns and preferences. 

So, it wasn’t a disaster, but Brendon still parted from him feeling weird. Jon called him after noon to tease him. “How was the date?” he asked. 

“Shut up,” Brendon muttered morosely, kicking the linoleum flooring of the party store. Everything here was seriously generic and cheap looking. He was going to have to go somewhere else, and mostly what he wanted to do was curl up with Bogart and eat ice cream. 

“What the fuck happened? You were all jazzed about it last night,” Jon said. 

Brendon shrugged, as if Jon could see him. “I don’t know. I guess, maybe, we don’t have anything in common. He’s all like, oh look at my shiny BMW and my super awesome career, and oh, non-profit, that’s nice.” 

“That sucks, dude, I’m sorry,” Jon said. 

“Whatever. No big deal. He only has the most amazing eyes I’ve ever seen, and these freckles I want to lick, and—”

“TMI, jackass,” Jon said pleasantly. 

Brendon chuckled weakly. “Sorry, I’m just bummed out. I’ll get over it.” 

“Hey, want help? I don’t have to be in until five,” Jon offered. 

“Please,” Brendon said automatically. 

“I know a place over on Lombard,” Jon said. Brendon had seen it in passing; it was only two stops away on the train. “Meet you there in twenty?” 

Jon already had a cart full of ridiculous party favours when Brendon met him up. Brendon eyed the contents of the basket and gave Jon a look. “I hope those are for some other party you’re planning, which has nothing to do with Ryan Ross’ engagement,” he said. 

“Snob,” Jon said, tossing a bunch of shiny pink and purple crackers in with the rest. “I’m planning a Brendon-Urie-Is-An-Awesome-And-Talented-Dude-Who-You-Should-Know bash.” 

Brendon rolled his eyes, knocking his own cart against Jon’s. “That’s gonna be weird if I’m not there,” he said. 

“I will kidnap you, Urie,” Jon said, all blasé. 

This place was better than the last, and Brendon found some nice golden brocade tablecloths and lots of gold, orange and olive coloured organza to decorate the urns he’d gotten for the flower arrangements. Spencer planned on lowering the house lights and using candles for atmosphere, but Brendon found some hanging lanterns that looked appropriate for the theme. 

As far as favours went, Spencer had mostly left that up to Brendon, indicating only that he wanted something for the place keepers. There were some neat wine corks that had been carved and could hold the names, and which could be inscribed with the couple’s name. Brendon ordered them and the matching place cards with the names on the list Spencer had given him, to be picked up the next morning. For the rest, he went ahead and got a bunch of one-time Polaroid cameras and golden picture frames set with orange and red crystals. 

Afterwards, they had a late lunch at a café near Panic! and Jon made Brendon tell him all about the morning. “You know,” he said, over ice cream, because Jon always knew just how to cheer Brendon up, “you could have been a little better at the whole communication thing yourself.” 

Brendon shrugged uncomfortably. “I just. I just couldn’t see how it would change things. I’ve got a stupid crush, so what? He’s still my boss and in a whole different class from me.” 

“Granted that I don’t know the guy all that well, but Spencer doesn’t seem like the kind of person who cares how much money you make,” Jon said, and he sounded so reasonable. 

“Yeah, well, he is the kind of guy who’d care about the whole employee/employer thing. He takes his job so seriously. I couldn’t relax around him. It would never work,” Brendon said. It was hopeless, and it was stupid for them to even keep discussing it. 

“You’re really good at that,” Jon observed. 

“Good at what?” Brendon asked, swirling his spoon in his dish. The ice cream was a melted mess by now. 

“Finding excuses not to come to the party even when you’re invited, not letting Spencer get to know you even when he asks you a direct question about yourself,” Jon said casually. 

Brendon dropped his spoon and glared across the table. “What are you trying to say?” 

“I’m saying that you don’t _want_ anyone getting any closer to you,” Jon said. “How long were you with your last boyfriend?” 

“Shut the fuck up,” Brendon said, shoving his chair away from the table. “I talk to you all the time. I tell you all about myself.” 

“Yeah,” Jon said, dipping his head in agreement. “And I had to practically fucking _stalk_ you to get you to spend any time with me. And you don’t want to have sex with me.” 

“Whatever, I’m done with this conversation,” Brendon said, grabbing his bags and storming out of the café. He heard Jon sigh, and felt a little bad, reminding himself to pay Jon for his half later, when he wasn’t so pissed. 

The problem was, Jon wasn’t exactly wrong, and Brendon _knew_ that. He just wasn’t any good at the opening-up thing. He’d spent so long surrounded by people who wanted nothing to do with him that he didn’t know how to react to people who _did_ want to know him. He couldn’t help the thoughts that were always running through his head, telling him they didn’t actually want to hear the answers to the questions they asked—they were just being polite, or wanted something from him. 

He would apologise, when Jon caught up with him at the restaurant. It wasn’t Jon’s fault that Brendon was an awkward freak who couldn’t keep a relationship going. Or even get one started, most of the time. 

Pete, Jason, and Greta were at a booth in the back, table covered in papers. All three of them were on their cell phones, and from the snippets he heard on the way back to the kitchen, they were all taking care of arrangements for the party. Pete slammed his phone down on the table as Brendon went by, and he let out a curse. 

“What’s up?” Brendon asked, eyebrows climbing up his forehead. 

Patrick, Gabe, Bill and Cass were at the neighbouring booth, playing cards. Brendon was always envious of the way none of them had day jobs and could just hang out at Panic! all day, if they wanted to. 

Pete swore rather creatively and Patrick leaned over the table and in a loud whisper said, “He’s trying to find entertainment for Ryan’s little shindig. I’ve got a gig tomorrow night, and Ryan wants something classical, anyway.” 

Patrick was a great musician, but piano wasn’t his strong point by any stretch of the imagination. He was amazing on the guitar and drums, and his voice made Brendon shiver sometimes, but when it came to piano, Patrick didn’t do much that had been written before 1900. 

“You know, I can play. I’ve had lessons, even,” Brendon said, maybe a little bitterly, but _seriously_. He was so tired of everyone just looking past him, and Jon was right. It was never going to change unless Brendon changed it. 

Pete gave him a smirk, and well, it wasn’t mean. It was just Pete. But then he said, “Yeah, didn’t everyone’s mom make them take lessons? I’m afraid we need something a little more sophisticated than ‘Heart and Soul,’” and something in Brendon sort of snapped. 

Brendon’s lips twisted into a sneer without his permission and Pete looked unimpressed. _Okay_ , said Brendon’s aggressive head voice, _fuck that noise_. He dropped his multitude of bags on the nearest table, rolled his shoulders, and climbed the tiers of the stage, taking a seat at the piano bench. Patrick made a little, half-aborted noise of protest, but Brendon laid his fingers over the keys and began playing without really thinking. 

It wasn’t a surprise, really, what his fingers began to play. He was fucking _pissed_ and hurt and naturally he started playing the most difficult piece he’d ever learned. The piece he’d _hated_ with a passion, practicing hour after hour—blindfolding himself at one point—working through each individual movement until his fingertips ached and he hated the individual notes, until one day he realised he’d somehow fallen in love with it. 

The sonata started very slowly, the staccato notes played in _piano_. Pete’s lip curled up with disdain after the first two measures and Brendon thought vindictively, _just wait_. Pete said, “Okay Brendon, you showed me,” in this mocking drawl, and Brendon hadn’t intended to play the whole thing; the thought of sitting there for upwards of thirty minutes was just ridiculous. He’d just wanted to play enough to say _hey, quit ignoring me_. 

Only Pete was impatient, and as Brendon neared the _allegro energico_ , he said, “Seriously, that’s enough.” Bill hushed him, and Brendon wasn’t surprised that he would be the one to recognise the piece. Brendon ignored them both, continuing to play, and Pete rolled his eyes and picked his cell phone back up, muttering, “Whatever.” 

Brendon straightened his spine as he began to play _forte_. Except, even though it began as showing off, he just couldn’t do that to the music. It was worth so much more than being used like that, to put Pete Wentz in his place, and by the middle of the first movement, Brendon had already forgotten his audience, eyes closed, soaking up every note. 

Brendon loved playing Chopin and Verdi and Mozart, and he always had. His love affair with Liszt, however, was much more complex and went so much deeper. The music curled up inside him, making his heart pound and his head swim. 

Every time he played the sonata, he experienced it differently. Mostly there was the anger and longing of the surface, but beyond that there was always something new to experience—profound sorrow, or reverence, or terror, building up in his chest, rising ever higher, climaxing with a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction at the recapitulation. 

He lost track of time playing, letting his hands move as they wished at the ponderous _larghissimo_ parts, rising above the keys, drawing shapes in the pauses, falling back down like in a dream. Then, at the _adagietto_ , trusting his fingers to keep up with the dizzying pace even when his mind couldn’t. Day after arduous day of practice had made it instinct, and he still couldn’t believe his ears when it came out right, couldn’t help the rush of incandescent pleasure at succeeding after he’d failed so many times before. 

Then came the ending, slow and hesitant, almost like an afterthought, and as Brendon played the final notes, he could hear the stillness of the restaurant, the distant sound of traffic outside over the silence within. 

He was trembling when he finished, sweat beading along his hairline, shirt clinging to his back, and he didn’t want to open his eyes. He wanted to stay here with Liszt, where he felt like someone understood him, and he knew when he opened his eyes that feeling of intense satisfaction and belonging would be gone. 

“Dude,” Gabe said, and Brendon opened his eyes, blinking against the light in the room. They were all staring; Pete’s mouth was literally hanging open, his expression one of wonder, Greta had her eyes closed and a dreamy look on her face, and Bill’s eyes might as well have been hearts. Andrew, Alicia, and Mark had come in from the kitchen and were standing in the doorway, and at some point Jon had come in, and he was just smiling softly. 

And yet, it didn’t feel like a victory. Brendon felt shaky and sick and he sort of hated himself right now. He got to his feet and each step felt overly precise as he went down the steps of the stage. He did his best to keep his face expressionless, because if he didn’t, he was sure it would just express defeat. 

“Dude,” Gabe said again, and held out his fist. “Badass.” 

Brendon bumped his fist to Gabe’s, said, “Thank you,” with as much dignity as he could, nodded at Pete, and headed for the back door via the kitchen. 

Spencer was standing in the hallway, blocking his path, staring at him with an unreadable expression on his face. “Was that—was that _you_?” Spencer asked, voice barely more than a whisper. 

Brendon nodded haltingly. Spencer took a step closer, crowding Brendon up against the wall and Brendon’s heart started pounding again. He had to tilt his head back to meet Spencer’s eyes. “You were. That was.” Spencer paused and shook his head. “ _Brendon_.” 

There was a feeling of adrenaline-fuelled recklessness left over from playing, and that was the only excuse he had for grabbing Spencer by the undone ends of his neckerchief and hauling him down, fitting their mouths together. 

Spencer made a startled sound, stumbling into Brendon and bracing his hands against the wall. And then he was _kissing Brendon back_ , little hesitant brushes of his lips to Brendon’s, and that was all the incentive Brendon needed to push further. He lapped at Spencer’s mouth and when Spencer opened for him, licked inside. Spencer tasted vaguely of something tangy and spicy and Brendon chased the taste with his tongue, a thrill of arousal shooting down his spine when Spencer moaned. 

They stumbled again, Brendon nudging Spencer the short distance across the hall to pin him, hold him in place while Brendon took his fill. Spencer’s hands fell on Brendon’s waist, touch light, but intimate. Brendon’s fingers hurt from clenching so tightly, but he couldn’t let go. He was sort of worried he might pass out if he didn’t keep holding on. 

Then he shifted his hips, pressing his growing erection against Spencer’s thigh and Spencer jerked back as if burnt. His hands shifted, no longer holding Brendon but pushing him away. “God, I—I’m so sorry. That shouldn’t have— _I_ shouldn’t have—I’m _so_ sorry,” he mumbled. 

“It’s okay,” Brendon started to say, but Spencer cut him off. 

“You should probably go,” he said. “I have to—I’m sorry.” Then he turned and all but ran out the back door, before Brendon could say anything. If he could have thought of anything to say. 

Brendon slumped against the wall, out of breath, staring helplessly at the door, as if Spencer might come back and make sense of things. And then the adrenaline ebbed and it all sank in how much he’d just fucked up. Showing off even when Pete told him to stop, throwing himself at Spencer like some sex fiend. 

Jon came through the kitchen door and when he spotted Brendon, he gave him a questioning look. Brendon waved him off, still trying to catch his breath, but Jon arched a brow and Brendon wondered what he looked like. His lips felt sensitive and he was sure he was blushing, and _oh god_. 

“I can’t, Jon. I can’t do this,” he said. 

“What are you talking about?” Jon asked. “You totally put Pete in his _place_. He wants to fucking marry you right now. He’s talking about what a dilemma he’s facing because you’re his best server, but you _belong_ on the stage.” Jon’s smile was purely excited, but Brendon just felt wrung out and empty. 

“That’s great,” he said, because of course he had to go and ruin everything by molesting his boss, just when people were actually paying attention. Of course he had to fuck up this job, which he _loved_ , by being stupid and impulsive. 

“It _is_ ,” Jon said vehemently. “They all want to hear you play another.” 

Brendon’s shoulders slumped and he rubbed his face. “I have to go, Spencer told me I should…go,” he said, and ignored Jon’s noise of protest as he left. 

~*~

Brendon turned off his cell phone after it chimed a voice mail notification for the fifth time. He opened his windows to let in a cool evening breeze and curled up on his couch with Bogart tucked to his chest. TMC was having a Jimmy Stewart marathon and he managed to watch the end of _It’s a Wonderful Life_ , then all of _Philadelphia Story_ and most of _Mr. Smith Goes to Washington_ before his landline started ringing. 

It was a bit more difficult to ignore the messages being left on his answering machine, mostly because the volume was up loud enough to be heard throughout the entire apartment. The first was Jon, saying, “Quit being a douche bag, pick up your phone.” There was a moment of silence and then a sigh and, “I’m coming over when I get off. I will break in if I have to.” 

Brendon wilfully ignored it, burrowing deeper into the couch and rubbing his face against Bogart’s fur. The next message was Pete, babbling and excited over the sounds of the band at Panic! “Dude, I was thinking, you know, that maybe you could play after the dinner rush, you know, because then you could keep waiting tables, too. And I definitely want you to play tomorrow for the party. Spence says he has the waitstaff covered, so you can. You know, if you still wanted to.” He sounded nervous and over-excited, and beneath it all, contrite. “Also, Patrick says I’m a dickhead, and he’s totally right. I’m sorry.” 

But that didn’t make Brendon feel any better. If anything, it made him feel worse. He wasn’t that sort of person who liked to flaunt his talent, especially not to get back at someone else. It felt like an empty victory, like when Gabe had invited him to the party because of Jon’s prompting. 

At close to midnight, the phone rang again, and Brendon was going to get up and tell Jon _not_ to come over, really, when the answering machine picked up and then Spencer started speaking. “I wanted to make sure you were still coming tomorrow. Pete and I both want you to play; you can play whatever you want that’s classical. And I wanted to apologise again. I don’t know what came over me, and I swear it won’t happen again. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable, like you can’t work here anymore.” 

There was an awkward silence, then Spencer cleared his throat. “Anyway, I hope we see you tomorrow.” His voice went soft at the end, raising a little like it was a question, and Brendon wanted to pick up the phone and say he was home, just to hear Spencer speak a little longer. Then again, the shame and embarrassment over what he’d done earlier was strong enough that part of him never wanted to step foot in Panic! again. 

A knock on the door startled Brendon so badly he actually jumped, confused for a moment, and worried that it was somehow Spencer. Then Jon said, “I was not kidding, Urie, I will break this door down if you don’t answer,” and Brendon sighed and got reluctantly to his feet to unlock the door. 

Jon was standing outside with a six-pack in one hand and a bag of snacks in the other, and as soon as Brendon opened the door, Jon attack-hugged him. Brendon would have resisted it a few months ago, but now he forced himself to relax, and when he brought his arms up around Jon’s back, he felt a little better about everything. 

“So,” Jon said, when they’d settled on _Snakes on a Plane_ and each had an open beer in hand. “You gonna tell me why you freaked out earlier? And why Spencer was a fucking tyrant all night?” 

“He was mad?” Brendon asked, heart plummeting. 

“Uh, to put it mildly,” Jon said. “He almost made Sisky cry. Alicia was seriously reading to punch him.” 

“Well…um…” Brendon bit his bottom lip and cringed. “Ikissedhim.” But if Spencer was mad about that, why would he have asked Brendon to come perform tomorrow? Maybe he was lulling him into a false sense of security, and was going to fire him in front of everyone, telling them what a freak Brendon was. 

Jon just stared. Brendon grew uncomfortable with the silence, shifting in place, and finally demanded, “What?” 

“I’m just impressed. And filled with disbelief,” Jon said slowly. 

Brendon smacked him on the arm. “Fuck off. There’s nothing impressive about it. He pushed me off and told me to leave, then ran out the back door, and right before you came over, he called to warn me never to let it happen again.” 

“Seriously?” Jon asked, and he sounded genuinely confused. Brendon was confused, too, but probably for different reasons. “That is not how I would have expected things to go.” 

That was because Jon was stupidly naïve and optimistic about life sometimes, and it was profoundly unfair that people accused Brendon of the same thing, because Brendon _knew better_. Jon was always telling Brendon he needed to put himself out there more, and Brendon had given up trying to explain that he _had_ put himself out there before. He’d never been any good at it, and it had always ended badly, and it was just easier and less painful not to try anymore. 

Also, lonelier. 

“Okay, well, Spencer Smith is obviously an asshole. With bad taste,” Jon said. 

Brendon twisted his lips in a half-frown half-smile. “Stop it, Jon. Just because he doesn’t want me—”

“Fucking crazy,” Jon interrupted. “Anyway, fuck him. Are you gonna go play tomorrow? You have to, Brendon.” 

Brendon really _really_ didn’t want to, but he knew that would just make him look like a spoiled brat—asking to be allowed, shoving his talent in their faces, then refusing the job. Spencer wanted Ryan’s party to go well. He’d probably wait until afterwards to fire Brendon. 

He nodded. Jon knocked their shoulders together, looking at Brendon’s music wall—he was going to get a bigger apartment someday, but with the tiny size of his current one-bedroom, all his instruments were crammed in the living room, many hung alongside his framed diplomas and favourite scores. 

Jon got up and browsed the bookshelf overflowing with sheet music and song books. “We should go through these and pick out what you’re gonna play,” Jon said. He picked up one and smirked. “It would be seriously awesome if you busted out, like, the viola or the cello or the guitar or something.” 

Brendon grinned. “You know,” he said, “I’m really glad you did friend-stalk me.” 

Jon hid a smile in his shoulder, ears going red. “Me too.” 

~*~

As nervous as Brendon was about what was going to happen later in the day, he didn’t let it distract him at the centre. He packed his bag with his work uniform and brought along his classical guitar, just in case Ross was amenable to him playing it. Jon had picked some of Brendon’s favourite Giuliani and Carulli pieces appropriate to the Tuscan theme. 

Everyone on the train was in a pissy mood anyway because of the stifling heat of the morning, and Brendon got nasty looks for all the shit he was carrying during the rush hour. Now that he was working at Panic!, he was making enough to afford car payments, but he still couldn’t justify it when the mass transit system served his needs just fine. 

The Rebecca L. Hale Centre was a four-block walk from the train station, set back from the street with a wide lawn. Just seeing it every day he came in gave Brendon a rush of pleasure; no matter how much hell his parents gave him, and no matter what else happened at Panic!, he had this. 

There was group therapy in the morning when he arrived, then he had his individual appointments with the children and his occasional adult. Wednesdays he saw one of his favourite children, Ashley, just after morning snack. 

Ashley was eight, and until she’d begun therapy with Brendon, she would only respond to her video games. The children rotated between group and private sessions in the different disciplines—art, dance, drama, music, and chess—but Ashley hadn’t shown any progress or interest in the other sessions until she’d started working with Brendon. Now, she was eager to join Brendon in playing the piano, and her parents thanked Brendon every day when they picked her up, because she had begun to initiate physical contact with them. 

Growing up in his family, with their religion, Brendon had often felt isolated and alone, and oftentimes music had been his only refuge. He knew, with his talent and education, that there were many other careers available to him, and when he was younger, he’d wanted the spotlight. He’d spent so long being bullied and put down at school, and often forgotten as the youngest child at home, and he’d just wanted to stand out in the open and show them all what he was capable of. 

Only now Brendon couldn’t imagine anything else fitting him as well as the centre did. Helping the children make a connection where nothing else could gave him more gratification than performing on stage ever had. 

Brendon’s mother liked to drop passive-aggressive insinuations into their conversations, about how psychologists were often just as messed-up as their patients, which is why they’d chosen to study psychology in the first place. Brendon was still too invested in that relationship to tell her, _yes, and thanks for all the issues, Mom_. 

Normally on Wednesdays after work Brendon would take Bogart to the dog park, and he made a mental note to pick up a special treat for Bogart on the way home to make up for it. It was a bit of work, talking himself into getting on the train going east to Panic! rather than the one going north to home. 

~*~

There was still decorating to be done when Brendon arrived, and Spencer was in the back, so Brendon forced himself to relax and pitch in. He and Adam hung the lights while Andrew finished arranging the flowers and Jon, Alicia, and Cass did the place settings. 

Ryan, his fiancée (who Jon had said was named Elaina), and Spencer came in a half-hour before the party was to start. Spencer had done all the purchasing and prep work for the party, but Ross had insisted that he allow Greta, Andrew, and Jason do the cooking so Spencer could dine with the rest of the group. He was out of his uniform again, this time in an expensive-looking dark grey suit and a sapphire blue tie that made his eyes seem even brighter than usual. 

Brendon made himself look away before Spencer could see him staring, but not before Ryan caught it, smirking a little. “So I hear you’re a musical genius,” he said, looking over Brendon’s guitar case with playful eyes. 

It was bad enough when people praised him sincerely, and much worse when they teased him about his talent. He ducked his head, wanting nothing more than to melt into the floor. “If you want me to play a bit, before the party—”

Spencer interrupted him, giving Ryan a sharp look, “That isn’t necessary, Brendon,” and Brendon fell silent immediately, chastened. 

Elaina ignored all of them, going to coo over Brendon’s guitar. “Is this an original?” she asked, not quite touching. 

Brendon spared a quick look at Ryan and Spencer, who seemed to be having an intense conversation with their eyebrows, and turned his attention back to her. “It’s just a replica. I can’t really afford a restoration yet. Someday.” 

“It’s gorgeous,” she said, “may I?” 

Brendon was always happy to share his love of music with others who were just as enthusiastic. He nodded and she picked it up gingerly, turning it over in her hands a few times before adjusting her hold and strumming a few notes. 

“I thought. Well, Pete said classical music, and with the theme you wanted, there are some guitar pieces I could do,” Brendon said. 

“Piano and guitar. You’re practically a prodigy, hmm?” Ryan sneered. 

Brendon drew further into himself, crossing his arms over his chest. He opened his mouth to respond, not even entirely sure what he was going to say, but Spencer beat him to it. 

“Maybe you should get set up, Brendon,” he said and Brendon flinched and nodded, turning away from them. 

Elaina gave him a sympathetic look and passed him back his guitar. “I look forward to hearing you play,” she told him, and he tried to smile at her in thanks, but it came out wrong, he was sure. 

Spencer gave him a weird look from across the room and Brendon busied himself at the piano, vowing not to pay attention to anything else until after this whole party was done. He played around a bit before the guests began to arrive, running through a few quick etudes and when Jon requested it jokingly, _Piano Man_. 

As soon as the door opened to admit the guests, Brendon began playing from the list of songs he and Jon had selected, softly so as not to draw attention away from conversation. The first to arrive were two young girls, one with bright blonde hair and the other with red, but who were otherwise very much alike. Brendon was sort of surprised by how attractive he found them, but it all made sense a second later when Spencer swept them into a tight hug, one under each arm, and Brendon realised they must be the twins. 

After that there was a crowd of hipsters who stood around making inappropriate jokes, and okay, Brendon wasn’t exactly a prude when it came to cursing, but it was practically every other word with them. Though it was silly to still care, he hoped they weren’t Spencer’s friends, because they were so pretentious it hurt. And Brendon spent a lot of time around Pete Wentz, so he had a high tolerance for pretension. 

Eventually an older couple came in, dressed like they’d stepped out of an ad in a very expensive fashion magazine. She was beautiful with copper-red hair twisted up on her head, a golden dress with a red floral pattern and impeccable makeup. The man with her was wearing a suit obviously custom-made for him, and had blue eyes just like Spencer’s. 

They hugged Spencer and the twins, and then the woman wrapped Ryan in her arms like he was another of her children, and it was really strange, seeing Ryan smile in real pleasure and hug her back tightly. Brendon _wanted_ that. It was stupid, and childish, and never going to happen, but he wanted Spencer’s picture-perfect parents to wrap _him_ in their arms. Welcome _him_ into their family. 

Brendon straightened his back, looked away, and focussed his attention on the music to distract himself from ridiculous and impossible fantasies. It worked throughout most of the dinner. He caught snippets of conversation, stories the twins were telling Elaina about Ryan and Spencer when they were boys. Maybe Brendon’s heart ached just a little to hear them. 

His sisters and brothers didn’t have any stories like that about Brendon. Not that it really mattered, because even if he ever found a guy he wanted to settle down with, he doubted his family would come to celebrate the occasion. 

It took him a few moments to realise he was playing a nocturne, 19 in E minor, at an exaggeratedly slow pace. He glanced up to see if anyone had noticed, and of _course_ Spencer was watching him, eyes dark, a pensive frown on his lips. Brendon made what he hoped was a not very obvious segue to into Liszt etude. Spencer caught himself staring and blinked, looking away. 

The party went on for a few hours, Brendon switching from piano to guitar and back again a couple times. The food was served slowly and drinks flowed all throughout. Jon kept sneaking Brendon flutes of champagne, which was nice, but also started making him feel fuzzy in the head and less cautious with his emotions. That was always a bad thing, so he cut himself off after the fourth one. 

By nine-thirty, most of the guests had gone, leaving two tables full of expensive gifts. It was down to the family and friends, and Spencer waved Brendon over mid-Giuliani. “You don’t have to keep playing,” he said. “It’s late. Aren’t you tired?” 

“You should have something to eat,” Ryan said, before Brendon could say anything. He pulled out a chair between him and Spencer and said, “Sit. Everyone, this is Brendon.” 

“Oh,” the twin with the blonde hair said, and shared a look with her mother and sister. Brendon felt something heavy settle in his stomach. 

“Brendon,” Elaina said, reaching across the table to touch his wrist. “Settle this silly argument we’re having, won’t you?” 

Ryan rolled his eyes skyward. “I don’t see what the problem is with the Dylan song.”

“It’s sexist, for a start,” Elaina said, going red in her cheeks.

Ryan scoffed. “If she has her way, we’re going to end up dancing our first dance to fucking _Savage Garden_.”

“I don’t know,” Brendon mused, thinking about it. Really he just wanted to disagree with Ryan, and Elaina seemed nice. But also, Brendon liked Savage Garden. So what? He strummed a few notes and Ryan just arched a brow as if to say _continue_ , so he did. 

The song began to take form after a couple notes and Elaina laughed. Ryan sat back in his seat with a smirk. Brendon took a breath and wetted his lips and sang, “Maybe it’s intuition, but some things you just don’t question.” By the time he reached the first chorus everyone was chuckling and clapping, and Jon even whistled from the bar. Brendon let himself get into it. As much as he loved the piano and the guitar, singing gave him a different sort of freedom of expression. 

He didn’t know what possessed him to lift his gaze and set it on Spencer, but he did so only to find him already watching Brendon. Spencer was the only one who didn’t seem very amused by Brendon’s performance, and Brendon cut off abruptly, slapping his palm against the strings and smiling playfully. “It could work,” he said. 

Ryan leaned forward again, bracing his elbows on the table and leaning his chin in his palm. “You play all these instruments and you have such an impressive voice, albeit questionable taste in popular music.” 

“Hey,” Brendon interjected, but Ryan went on. 

“I’m just curious, because you have such talent and potential, and Spencer tells me you have some,” here Ryan waved his hand vaguely in the air, “charity day job, yet you’re working here to subsidise your income. What’s up with that?” 

He said it in such a casually derisive way that Brendon felt his jaw tightening and his eyes stinging painfully. He cast a quick look at Spencer, who was glaring daggers at Ryan. “You said I—” Brendon began, then made himself stop, swallowing hard. Of _course_ Spencer had said something about Brendon’s insignificant job. He really hadn’t expected any better. 

“You know what?” He got to his feet, grabbed his guitar case, and turned to face Ryan and Spencer again. “Fuck you. Some people have to work to get anywhere in their lives, we don’t all have it handed to us on a silver fucking platter. I busted my _ass_ for my Ph. D., and I don’t see why it should matter to anyone else if I want to use it to help people who don’t have the money to get help anywhere else, instead of milking rich people so I can have some huge apartment or a fancy car. I don’t need this shit.” 

His legs felt like rubber and he thought he might puke, or cry, but he managed to make it outside without collapsing. The night was sultry and Brendon felt gritty and dirty, like he needed to shower _forever_. 

Jon came running out after him, catching up at the flashing don’t-walk sign on the corner. He looked contrite, which was stupid, because it wasn’t _Jon’s_ fault. Brendon thought about how Jon could say something like _I told you so_. Like how if Brendon had just been more open about himself earlier, maybe this could have been avoided. 

But Jon just pulled Brendon into a tight hug and said, “I’m sorry,” against the skin of his neck. Brendon clung back for a brief second before straightening and pulling away. 

“You should get back,” Brendon said. “No sense in you getting in trouble over me.” 

“Brendon,” Jon said. 

“It’s okay, Jon,” Brendon reassured, and told himself, very firmly, to believe it. He did. A little. “It was just a stupid job and a stupid crush. What the fuck ever? Ryan Ross is right. I’m so much better than all of that.” 

Jon nodded sadly and said, “You really are,” and Brendon got the impression that they weren’t talking about the same thing. 

~*~

It was weird, going to work without expecting to go into Panic! in the evening. He didn’t have to pack a bag with his costume, or worry about leaving work in a rush, which was for the best. Splitting his time between two jobs wasn’t fair to his patients, and even though he’d managed okay, this was probably for the best. 

On Thursday he had individual meetings with some of the live-in patients on the third floor, and a staff meeting that took up most of the afternoon. They discussed courses of treatment for various patients, putting together their assorted observations. 

Brendon honestly adored his colleagues at the centre, and wished he could know them better. Gerard, head art therapist, was so sincere in his desire to help his patients, and probably the kindest person Brendon had ever met. His boyfriend, Frank, worked with the drama programme and could manage to draw even the most reluctant child out of a shell in this completely effortless way. And Keltie, one of the dance therapists, would literally bend over backwards for the children, and never failed to make Brendon smile when he was down. 

Even Brian, the director of the centre, was fair and committed to helping the patients, and when they all came together, Brendon felt a real sense of camaraderie and accomplishment. The only disagreements that ever arose were how to best benefit the patients, and that came out of concern rather than any desire towards self-promotion. 

Usually Brendon couldn’t join the others after work; he’d only been at the centre six months, and it had taken a while for him to warm up to them, and by then he’d been working at Panic!. Today when Gerard invited him out for Chinese, Brendon readily agreed, thinking it would be good to distract himself from the fact that he’d otherwise be at the restaurant. 

The thing was, they were all super nice and funny and cool, but Brendon couldn’t relax around them. He wanted to _so badly_ , but he just couldn’t find the words, and he was worried if he even tried, they’d see how awkward he was in a social setting and wonder how the hell he’d ever gotten a job at the centre. 

So he kept his mouth occupied with food and drink, nodding and laughing at all the appropriate moments, trying not to look sullen and uncomfortable. Apparently it didn’t work, because when Katie Kay got up, Gerard slid into the booth beside Brendon, giving him a disarming smile. Brendon blinked up at him from where he’d been fascinated by the patterns in the condensation on his glass. 

“There’s rumours going around about you,” Gerard told him. 

“I’m sorry?” Brendon asked, bewildered. 

Gerard nodded and began ticking off his fingers as he listed, “You got dumped, you’ve been diagnosed with some incurable disease, a _family member_ died of some incurable disease, your dog ran away…”

Brendon could only stare in a sort of horrified fascination. 

“They don’t mean it in a bad way,” Gerard was quick to assure him. “You’re so quiet all the time. No one knows anything about you. You’re a mystery.” 

“There’s nothing mysterious about me,” Brendon said morosely. 

Gerard gave him a pointed look. “Mysterious,” he said. 

Brendon cracked a smile because he couldn’t not when Gerard was giving him crazy face. “You know, before I came to work at the centre, I was an alcoholic,” Gerard said, very casually. “I very nearly lost my license, and even once I got cleaned up, Brian was the only person who’d hire me.” 

“I’m…sorry,” Brendon said, uncertain what else there was to say. 

Gerard waved a dismissive hand. “Are you kidding, it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I met Frankie, and these kids. Fuck. I mean, I feel guilty when their parents thank me, because, you know, these kids saved _me_.” 

“Oh,” Brendon said. Because really, he had no idea what he was _supposed_ to say. He had no idea why Gerard was _telling_ him this. This was a prime example at why Brendon sucked at relationships with adults. “That’s good,” he tried out. 

Gerard gave Brendon a knowing look. “We’re all crazy and we’re all freaks, Brendon. No one’s going to judge you for that.” 

“Oh,” Brendon said, almost a whisper around the sudden lump in his throat. “Thanks.” 

“Me and Frankie are having a barbeque on Saturday. Wanna come?” Gerard offered, just like that. 

And Brendon. He wanted to say no. He _meant_ to say no. Because Gerard could give all the odd speeches about acceptance and friendship that he wanted, but it wouldn’t ever change who Brendon was. 

But he was lonely, and the fear of being by himself for the rest of forever was worse than the fear of being discovered for what he was. He was nodding before he realised it, saying, “That would be nice.” 

Gerard gave him one of his wide smiles, so bright it seemed to light up the whole room, and clapped a hand on Brendon’s shoulder. “Awesome. You can bring the dessert.” 

He didn’t know what came over him, but Brendon smiled wryly and said, “Oh, I see. Now your motives become clear.” 

And Gerard just gave him a sly look. “You’ll learn, yet, Urie,” he said. 

When he got home that night and plugged his dead phone in, he saw a missed call and message from Jon and only hesitated briefly before playing it. “So, I guess you aren’t coming in tonight?” Jon paused and sighed. “I uh. I just thought you should know, Spencer and Ross got into a big fight after you left. They were in the back, so I couldn’t really hear what was going on, but. I just think that maybe Spencer was really fucking pissed about the way Ross treated you.” 

Brendon snorted. _It’s not like I care what Spencer Smith thinks about the whole thing_ , he told himself. 

He almost believed it, too. 

~*~

It was blistering hot out when Brendon got home after work on Friday. The fans in his apartment weren’t cutting it, but there was no way he was going to turn on the air conditioning before June. So he changed into something cooler, grabbed his briefcase and Bogart’s leash, and went to the park. 

He spread out a blanket and tossed a Frisbee for Bogart while going over his patient records. It was his favourite way to relax, outside of composing and playing piano, to figure out new ways to help a patient with a particular problem, like a puzzle coming together. He was making a few notes about something he wanted to discuss with Keltie, about working together with one patient, when his phone rang. 

“Are you really not coming back?” Jon asked, by way of greeting. 

“Hi, Jon,” Brendon said. Bogart came bounding over and gave a bit of a fight when Brendon tried to take the Frisbee back. “How are you?” 

“Seriously, Brendon,” Jon said, and he sounded sad and defeated. Brendon wanted to tell Jon it wasn’t his responsibility to make Brendon a happier person. He sometimes couldn’t understand why Jon even cared to try. 

“Dude, it’s no big deal,” Brendon said, and even he was convinced. “You know Jason was getting on my ass about being late all the time, and Angela was being a bitch about scheduling me so close to when I got out of cla—the centre. It wasn’t going to work out anyway.” 

“If you said something to Pete, he’d fix things with Angela. You could cut back to few nights a week. Brendon, you’re talking to _me_. I know how you love this place, and now Pete wants you to play…”

“I cussed out one of the owners and threw myself at the other. I’m pretty sure it doesn’t _matter_ if Pete would let me play,” Brendon said. And Jon could accuse Brendon of being too passive, but if being passive meant not going back to the restaurant to be fired in person, then Brendon was fine with being with it. 

“I hope you don’t think that just because you’re quitting I’m going to leave you alone,” Jon said. 

Brendon chuckled. “You’d be a pretty shitty stalker, if that was the case.” 

“Damn straight,” Jon muttered. “I’m coming over there after I’m done closing up. Around midnight-thirty?” 

“If you must,” Brendon said, but he was so, so grateful. 

He had an early dinner at a vegan café where the owners let Bogart sit at the table outdoors with Brendon. At home he mixed up brownies to take to the barbeque the next day and cleaned his place up a little, putting his papers away in his desk. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Jon not to mess with them, but still, he felt weird having different parts of his life intersect. 

It was still hot after the sun went down, and Brendon jumped in the shower just before midnight. Afterwards, he threw on the smallest t-shirt he could find and his favourite pair of girl shorts—they were softer than guy shorts, and they had a skull and crossbones pattern, and maybe they came up pretty high, but it was _Jon_ , and besides, he was burning up again already. 

When Jon knocked, Brendon threw open the door, ready to start bitching about the heat, but his words abandoned him at the sight. Jon was there. With _the entire fucking restaurant_ behind him, all of them wearing the ridiculous party hats Jon had bought at the store, and blowing on matching noise makers. 

“This is your party,” Jon told him cheerfully. “I told you it was happening.” He tossed a handful of confetti in the air over Brendon’s head. “Surprise!” 

They all began to pour in and Brendon, still struck speechless, didn’t do anything to stop them. Bill, Jon, and Travis were all carrying booze, and most everyone else had some sort of food or another. Gabe gave him a through once-over when he passed. “Surprise _indeed_ ,” he purred. “Where _have_ you been hiding that fantastic little body, Brendon Urie?” 

From the looks on Pete, Bill, and Cass’ faces, Gabe wasn’t the only one looking. Brendon felt himself go a slow, bright red. He crossed his arms around his stomach, then dropped them to his side, tugging at the hem of his shorts to make them longer. Only that started showing his stomach. He crossed his arms again and wished for, like, a parka and some really baggy sweatpants, and to be _dead_. 

“Um, I’m gonna go change. In my room.” He pointed over his shoulder toward the door, to illustrate. “Where other people aren’t allowed to be.” 

There were still people filing in, and oh god, his apartment wasn’t big enough for this. He ducked down the hall, closing his bedroom door firmly behind him and leaning against it for a second, something like panic threatening to rise up from his stomach. Someone found Brendon’s CD collection. Most likely Cass, if the Save Ferris pouring from the speakers was any indication. 

Brendon made himself straighten up and take a calming breath. They were nice people. They wanted to get to know him. There was nothing wrong with that. He could _do_ this. He went to his closet, yanking his shirt off as he went, and his bedroom door opened with a burst of sound. 

“Hey,” Spencer said, closing the door behind him, “Pete said you were in he—”

“Jesus Christ,” Brendon shouted, grabbing the first thing out of the closet and holding it over his chest. “I said no one was allowed in here.” 

“I’m…” Spencer was staring at him unblinkingly, mouth agape. 

“Would you _get out_ ,” Brendon hissed, heart beating wildly in his chest. 

“I wanted to apologise,” Spencer said. “What Ryan said, I—I…” he trailed off, shaking his head. 

Brendon shifted, tucking the edges of the hoodie he’d grabbed under his arms. It still didn’t do much to cover him, and he was painfully aware of how short his shorts were. “It’s okay,” he mumbled, fighting against a full body blush. 

Spencer shook his head again and looked sort of shiftily from side to side, rather than at Brendon. “You—it really isn’t,” Spencer said, in this weird, distant sort of voice. “I—you know when you kissed me?” 

It was probably meant to be rhetorical, but Brendon couldn’t help but sputter, desperately, “Oh god. I’m _so sorry_ about that. I just…it was really just completely unprofessional of me and…”

He trailed off, because Spencer was looking at him like he was completely crazy. “That’s not what I—I’m not trying to give you a hard time,” Spencer said, stumbling over his own words, which was reassuring to Brendon. Usually he was the only one tongue-tied. “Jesus, Brendon, your _legs_.” 

“Are very bare,” Brendon said, almost hysterically. “And if you _get out_ , I can change.” Spencer nodded in agreement, but didn’t move. Brendon sighed, shifting his weight. “Look, you don’t have to apologise okay. I over reacted, and I know I must have made things awkward for you, anyway, by acting so inappropriately.” 

“Fuck, you don’t even _know_ ,” Spencer said, and was across the room in a couple long strides, standing mere inches away. “I’m fucking crazy about you,” he said, and he was touching Brendon all over, hands big and warm on Brendon’s bare waist, up his back, in his hair, along his jaw tilting Brendon’s face up. 

Brendon felt himself tremble uncontrollably, barely able to meet Spencer’s gaze. No one had ever looked at him this way before, none of his boyfriends or one night stands. They’d all looked right past him, always seeing what they wanted, not who Brendon was. But Spencer…

“God, you’re so—” Spencer pressed his mouth against Brendon’s in a hot, quick kiss, his lips so soft. Spencer pulled away and groaned in frustration. Brendon brought his arms up, clutching at Spencer’s shoulders; he couldn’t stop shaking. It was worse when Spencer bent his head, pressing his lips against Brendon’s throat, teeth scraping against the sensitive flesh there. 

“I want to know what’s going on inside your head,” Spencer whispered, mouth trailing hotly up Brendon’s neck. “It makes me fucking crazy. I just want to be around you.” His hands were on Brendon’s hips, drawing him closer and Brendon let out a helpless cry when they bumped together, pressed flush, Spencer hard against Brendon’s stomach. 

“But you,” Brendon started, and he _couldn’t think_ with Spencer pressed so close to him, nuzzling the skin below Brendon’s ear. The touch sent almost painful sparks of heat through his nerves. “You pushed me away, you said—”

Spencer kissed him again, rough and insistent, teeth sinking into Brendon’s bottom lip. One hand smoothed up Brendon’s thigh, catching the fabric of his shorts and slipping beneath, stroking his hip and Brendon couldn’t help himself, opening his mouth to Spencer’s and burying his hands in Spencer’s hair, just as silky as Brendon had imagined. 

“Fuck,” Spencer panted against Brendon’s mouth, spit-slick. “You make me—” He walked Brendon back into the wall and grabbed his ass, startling a sharp sound from Brendon. He jerked his hips up and Spencer slid a leg between Brendon’s giving him something to rock down against. 

“Spence,” he breathed, high and desperate. His nails scraped along Spencer’s scalp and Spencer hissed and slanted his mouth over Brendon’s with enough force to make Brendon’s lip feel as though it had split. Spencer kept them moving, bending his knees a little to grind their hips together. 

Spencer’s lips brushed over Brendon’s cheek, coming close to his ear and he was breathing heavily, so different from the normal composed picture he made. “I couldn’t—I had to get out of there before I just bent you over the prep station and fucked you right there, where anyone could come in. And you—Brendon, you just. I can’t figure you out.” 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Brendon whined, fingers curling and releasing over and over in Spencer’s hair. He couldn’t stop rubbing against Spencer’s thigh, and it was embarrassing how close he was already, but Spencer did things to him. “I thought you didn’t—”

Spencer pulled back enough to look Brendon in the eye. “I do,” he said, voice low and rough and he was really _looking_ at Brendon again, _seeing_ him, and Brendon had never been wanted like this. He didn’t know what to do with it, felt like he was going to burn up into nothing under Spencer’s gaze and lips and hands. 

There was a crashing sound from just outside the room and then the bathroom door slammed closed and Brendon jerked away, remembering where he was and what was going on. “We have to stop.” 

Spencer groaned in disapproval, stilling his hips in the middle of a slow grind. Brendon’s body wasn’t listening to sense, shifting to chase the sensation. “There are people— _our friends_ , and the walls, you can hear…”

Spencer nodded and shifted his hips away from Brendon’s, but he rested his forehead against Brendon’s and took a deep breath. “Brendon, listen, you have to know. I think you’re amazing. I think what you do is amazing. I don’t care how much fucking money you make, or if you put Ryan Ross in his place, because god knows someone needs to do it.” 

Brendon tried to focus on Spencer’s face, because it just didn’t make any sense. None of it made any sense. He was used to helpless crushes that never amounted to anything, because why would anyone want him back? Why would Spencer? 

“There’s nothing amazing about me,” Brendon said softly. Spencer growled and kissed him again, quickly. “I’m not,” Brendon protested, blindly trying to kiss him back and talk at the same time. “I’m so fucked up, you don’t know.” 

“I _want_ to know,” Spencer insisted. 

“You _don’t_ ,” Brendon said, trying to be firm, but his voice was shaking. 

“Let me decide,” Spencer said insistently. “Come to my place on Sunday. Let me make you dinner. I’ve already bribed all the staff to cover for me.” He gave Brendon a cheeky grin. “Don’t make me look like an idiot.” 

Brendon’s chest was tight with fear and hope, like he might actually die of wanting and not having. There was this voice that kept telling him this time wasn’t going to be any different than any time before. He opened his mouth, closed it again, and swallowed hard. “Dinner,” he said at last. 

“Is that a yes?” Spencer asked. 

“I—yes,” Brendon said, and could barely hear himself over the roar of blood in his head. He felt weak in the knees and so light, like Spencer’s touch was the only thing keeping him in place. “Yes,” he said again, more firmly. “I want to, Spencer, but I’m so bad at this.” 

Spencer brushed his mouth over Brendon’s, light and fleeting. “I’m not that great at it, either,” he said. 

Maybe, just maybe, if they both wanted it enough…

There was another loud sound from the party, then a catcall and Spencer pulled farther away with a rueful look. “I should. Let you change.” 

Brendon nodded, trying to will his stupid, wild pulse back to a normal rate. Spencer stopped at the door. “Sunday?” he asked. “I can pick you up.” 

“I have work until three,” Brendon said stupidly, because Spencer probably already knew that, and also, what did that fucking matter? Who had dinner at three in the afternoon, anyway. 

But Spencer just smiled hesitantly. “I would like to see where you work,” he said. 

Brendon wasn’t so sure about that, but his mouth was moving without his permission, saying, “I’ll give you the address, before you go. It isn’t anything exciting.” 

Spencer’s smile widened, teeth bright, eyes sparkling, and _god_. Brendon had been waiting months to see it, and he wasn’t ready for it, how it just made Spencer that much more beautiful, taking Brendon completely by surprise. Spencer left, shutting the door behind him and Brendon slumped against the wall, stricken.

There was a knock on the door after a moment, then Jon stuck his head in, grinning. “I thought that would have taken longer,” he said. 

“Oh my god, shut up,” Brendon snapped, shaking out of his stupor. He stood up straight, grabbing an oversized shirt from the closet and tugging it over his head. There were some lightweight sweatpants in his laundry pile that weren’t dirty or smelly. He shimmied out of his shorts and pulled on the sweats, drawing the string tight before tying. 

“You should be thanking me,” Jon said. “Apparently Spencer was labouring under the misapprehension that you didn’t want to have anything to do with him. Something about how he pissed you off when you went out shopping?” 

“Seriously?” Brendon demanded. “I have _asked_ you not to try to help me!” 

“I’m sorry,” Jon said, though he didn’t look it. “But did you or did you not just have make-outs with Spencer Smith?” 

“Shut up,” Brendon mumbled, throwing his shorts in Jon’s face. 

“You’re welcome,” Jon said. He grabbed Brendon by the arm, dragging him back out in the hall. “Come back to your party.” 

In the living room, Gabe handed Brendon a bottle of beer, which Brendon accepted gratefully. Cass and Adam were playing DDR, Pete and Bill were having a loud debate over Gore Vidal, and Patrick and Amanda were practically orgasmic over Brendon’s music wall. Maybe it _would_ be okay 

~*~

Sundays were an overall slower day than the rest of the week. Fewer people worked, but Brendon didn’t mind picking up the slack. It was just one of his little subtle ways of saying fuck you to his parents and their religion. 

The barbeque on Saturday had been a lot of fun, but still emotionally draining, and thinking about going to Spencer’s house on an actual, for-real date wasn’t doing a lot for his nerves. With the slow pace of the day, there wasn’t much to distract him. He did rounds in the morning and tried to draw it out longer than usual. He only had three regular appointments on Sundays and beyond that, the centre was open for walk-ins. 

During the colder months, they got a fair amount of traffic on the weekends because the local homeless wanted a place to get out of the cold, but Brendon didn’t mind them taking advantage of it. It wasn’t often, but he’d formed some connections with some of those visitors, and managed to talk them into returning. 

Today, Ryland watched Brendon pace around the rec room for about a half hour before he dragged him down to sit at one of the chess tables. When he’d first started at studying about expressive therapy, Brendon had been dubious about chess therapy, but the analytical thinking and problem solving really worked wonders with many patients. Brendon liked to think he was good at chess, and Ryland liked to show him how wrong he was. Plus, he had all these ridiculous voices he used that made Brendon laugh until his stomach hurt. 

After lunch, the patients had free time and Brendon spent the rest of his afternoon playing for and with those who expressed interest. Katie Kay joined in, singing along, and she and Luis and Fran, the two youngest patients, managed to bully Brendon into singing duets of all of Disney’s greatest hits. 

They were just reaching the chorus of _Beauty and the Beast_ when Brendon saw Spencer come through the door and trailed off mid-word, flushing bright red. He was dressed casually for a change in black skinny jeans and a tight Led Zeppelin tee. And Brendon had always known that beneath his kitchen whites Spencer had to have an amazing body. His tailored suits gave a hint of it, too. But Brendon had never _dreamed_ of those hips, or the curve of Spencer’s waist, or his long, long legs. 

Spencer’s gaze fell upon him and he gave Brendon a wave and a smile. Katie glanced over her shoulder and turned back to Brendon with a knowing smirk. “Who’s the hottie?” she whispered at him. 

Brendon gave her a warning look and went over to greet Spencer, unable to help but bounce on his toes in excitement. “We can go,” he said, overeager. 

“I thought you’d show me around?” Spencer said. Brendon glanced over his shoulder; Ryland and Katie were watching them with open interest. 

“I—” Brendon sighed in resignation. “Okay.” 

Spencer grabbed his hand before he could turn away, lacing their fingers together. “Brendon,” he said softly. “Show me around?” 

Brendon smiled up at him from under his lashes and tugged on their hands, leading Spencer down the hall to his office. He loved his office, really. It was wide open and warmly lit from the full-length windows all along the south wall. There was his piano and a few of his guitars, his cello in its stand, his clarinet, and a drum set, which was a favourite among some of the patients and children with more aggressive tendencies. 

Spencer walked among the instruments, a distant smile on his face that widened as he ran his fingertips around the rim of the cymbal, making a faint ringing sound. He flicked it with his nail. “Do you play all of these?” he asked. 

Brendon shrugged one shoulder, chewing at his thumbnail. “I, uh, well, I’ve had lessons in them all. For my degree I only needed the guitar and piano, but I’ve taken cello and the drums since I was a kid, and, I don’t know. You know how they say, like, once you’ve learned a couple different languages, it’s easier to learn others?” Spencer nodded and Brendon shrugged again. “That’s all it is,” he said. 

Spencer wrapped an arm around Brendon’s waist and kissed him, slow and slick, making Brendon feel dizzy with it. “I think it’s more that you’re fucking awesome,” Spencer said, when they parted, nuzzling at Brendon’s cheek. 

Brendon flushed, twisting out of Spencer’s grasp. “It’s just what I love to do,” Brendon said. “So I can play a bunch of instruments? I couldn’t ever do the things you do in the kitchen. I probably could have all the same lessons and have all the same tutors, and it would come out looking and tasting like dog food.” 

“You’re going to compare what we do?” Spencer asked, and chuckled. “Brendon, what you do is _important_. You help people.” 

“You make people happy,” Brendon said. “I love just being at Panic!, I. I like watching you work. It’s calming.” 

“I want you to come back,” Spencer said. “You can wait tables, though Pete is dying to have you play and sing, and Patrick’s hoping you’re amenable to it so he can finally go back to his regular gig.” 

“You don’t think…that would be weird?” Brendon asked hesitantly, when what he really wanted to say was _please, yes_. 

Spencer gave him a dubious look. “Any weirder than Sisky and Andrew? Or Bill and Gabe? Pete and Patrick? I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. I just want you to be around.” 

“I want that too,” Brendon said, feeling inexplicably breathless. 

“Good,” Spencer said decisively. “Let me take you home now.” 

Brendon nodded, a spike of anticipation flaring up at the words. Dinner, he reminded himself, but it didn’t succeed in calming his heart. 

~*~

Spencer had a three-storey townhouse with a view of the lake and the glittering city skyline. He had a fucking _yard_ —well-manicured, with a fountain and lady-slippers and pansies lining the house. 

Brendon looked around in stunned awe as Spencer led him inside through the front door. The entrance hall was black and white parquet with a grand, curving staircase and a crystal chandelier. Adjoining was a sitting room, with silver etched wallpaper and no doubt original paintings, fresh flowers in cut crystal vases, antique sofa and loveseat in a floral pattern. It all looked so stiff and uncomfortable, and made Brendon uneasy. 

Then Spencer took him down the hall and it opened in a den painted a warm red, with comfy, overstuffed furniture and the entertainment centre of Brendon’s dreams. 

“This place used to belong to my grandmother,” Spencer explained. “I like to keep the entrance how she had it. I don’t know, I guess it seemed disrespectful.” He laughed. “Are you going to psychoanalyse me?” 

Brendon gave him what he felt was a horrified look. “I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t ever do that to anyone who didn’t want me to.” 

“I was just teasing,” Spencer said quickly. “I’m sorry, bad joke. I don’t ever know what to say around you.” 

“Or maybe I just tend to overreact?” Brendon offered. He forced his shoulders to relax. “I’m sorry, I’ll try not to.” 

Spencer pulled him close and they kissed, unhurried, exploring. Spencer’s hands teased at the edge of Brendon’s t-shirt, fingers just brushing the bare skin at the small of his back, drawing circles. By the time Spencer drew away, the tension in Brendon’s muscles had gone completely. 

“It’s too early for dinner,” Spencer said, releasing Brendon altogether and going to the bar in the corner. “You should pick something for us to watch.” 

Brendon nodded, not entirely trusting himself to speak without a stutter right now. He wanted to say _fuck the movie, fuck dinner_ , and drag Spencer off to bed, but he made himself be patient. Lots of sex hadn’t done any good for any of his previous relationships, at any rate. 

So he went to the glass front cabinet that held Spencer’s movie collection and began to browse the titles. They were, no surprise, listed alphabetically and compulsively neat, but what was a surprise was the variety. He’d expected to see a lot of foreign and indie and intellectual films, which there were; but really, they were by far the rarest. Most of the collection was made of comedies and horror movies, and quite a few action and gangster films as well. 

“You have an entire movie rental store here,” Brendon said. He didn’t know where to begin with the couple hundred titles, and eventually just grabbed one at random and loaded the disk into the Blue Ray player. 

“Pick one?” Spencer asked, coming back with two tumblers of amber liquid. 

Brendon held up the case for _Dogma_ , and quirked a brow. “You have a problem with my taste in cinema?” Spencer asked. 

“On the contrary,” Brendon said. “I love Kevin Smith.” He took the glass Spencer offered him and let Spencer draw him close on the sofa, tucked under his arm. He couldn’t quite keep his heart under control, and he knew Spencer must feel it, where they were pressed together, but he didn’t mind Spencer knowing. Especially since Spencer kept drawing his thumb over Brendon’s pulse, making it go faster. 

They maybe paid attention through the first twenty minutes, long enough for Brendon to finish his bourbon. Then it was easier for him to ignore all the stupid thoughts that kept him trapped in his own brain. The anxiety ebbed, and he could just _be_ with Spencer, talking without worrying what he might give away with his words. 

“You know, I saw this movie for the first time when I was thirteen. I was at a friend’s house, my parents never would have let me—when they found out, I wasn’t allowed to go to his house again.” 

Spencer toyed with a lock of hair that had fallen over Brendon’s brow, brushed it back, traced a hand down Brendon’s jaw. “Religious?” he asked. 

Brendon rolled his eyes. “You could say that,” he murmured. “Mormon.”

“Wow,” Spencer said, “you really don’t…”

“I know, thank _god_. Or,” Brendon laughed, “not, as it were. I guess the movie was a way of acting out, but it certainly wasn’t my first, or my last. I didn’t even think it was so bad. Of course, by then I didn’t really believe in it all anymore, so…” He glanced at Spencer from the corner of his eye. “Do…do you believe it?” 

Spencer shifted, pulling Brendon more fully into his lap. He looked pensive and so fucking beautiful, his hair falling down into his eyes, lip full from biting it. “We used to go to church sometimes, when we were kids. Episcopalian. I was the book bearer.” 

Brendon bit back a smile. “Did you wear the robe?” he teased. 

“Mmm,” Spencer agreed, his eyes sparking mischievously. “But my parents didn’t really make us go, and around the time the twins were twelve, we stopped going except, you know Easter, Christmas. I always thought it was pretty boring. Ryan’s always been an atheist, and we used to talk about it, but I guess I never really cared, one way or another.” 

“I don’t get you and Ryan,” Brendon said. 

Spencer laughed, a real laugh, that shook even Brendon and Brendon wanted to make Spencer laugh like that forever. “No one gets me and Ryan. I don’t get me and Ryan. You have to understand that all those things he said to you—he did it because he was fascinated by you, he wanted to get under your skin.” 

“Fascinated? By me,” Brendon asked, unconvinced. 

“I don’t—besides Ryan, I don’t have any really close friends, and I haven’t dated anyone in years, and he knew I was fascinated by you, so he was, too. He wanted to understand why.” 

Brendon’s face was on fire, but he was also smiling so widely his cheeks ached. Normally he would have told Spencer he was wrong, or crazy, but he didn’t feel like arguing the point right now. He wanted to hold Spencer’s fascination. Instead of saying, _I’m not_ , he leaned up to press a quick kiss to Spencer’s mouth and then settled against him. 

They spent most of the movie fighting over who was hotter—Spencer thought Selma, Brendon thought Alan, and that led somehow to a debate over who was more badass, Professor Snape or the Metatron. And okay, so Spencer was hot and really good at his job, and that was all great, but Brendon was ridiculously relieved to learn that Spencer was just as much a dork as he was, willing to get into silly arguments about characters from _Harry Potter_.

After the movie ended, Spencer switched over to the television and they fought half-heartedly over the remote, settling quite amiably on the _Law and Order_ marathon they stumbled across on TNT.

Spencer kept inching further and further back until he was practically lying down and Brendon was sprawled over him, and by half-way through the first episode they were making out, Brendon’s fingers hooked in the belt loops of Spencer’s jeans to keep from wandering. He couldn’t get enough of Spencer’s mouth—his lips were so soft and his teeth were small and even and _perfect_ when they bit at Brendon’s mouth, sending sparks skittering down Brendon’s spine. Every time a kiss ended, Brendon needed another, until his mouth felt bruised, but in the best way. 

Brendon could have kept it up all night, slowly learning what sort of kisses Spencer liked best, and where on Spencer’s neck was most sensitive, and the sighs that Spencer made when Brendon did something right. Only his body was a traitorous thing, and sometime during the second episode, his stomach growled, loud enough to make Spencer pull away and give him a rueful smile. 

“I’m the worst host ever,” he said. “I invite you over for dinner and then I let you starve.” 

“I’m okay with starving,” Brendon protested, tugging on Spencer’s belt loops. Spencer’s back arched, bringing their hips together, and Brendon let out a shaky moan. Spencer surged up, catching his mouth again and rolling them over, pinning Brendon to the sofa with a solid, comforting weight. His hips were sharp against Brendon’s stomach and he rolled down, rubbing his groin to Brendon’s. 

Brendon slipped his fingers from Spencer’s belt loops to trace the line of his jeans. He plucked at Spencer’s t-shirt, searching for bare skin and finding Spencer’s stomach, smooth and quivering under his fingers. Spencer didn’t move to stop him, and Brendon lay his palm flat against his skin and stroked upward, counting ribs, thumb catching some ticklish spot that made Spencer huff in laughter. 

Then Brendon’s stomach growled again, longer, and Spencer broke the kiss laughing. He sat back on Brendon’s thighs, looking down at him with a torn expression. “Dinner,” he said at last, and got to his feet, offering Brendon a hand. 

And Brendon couldn’t be petulant about it, because Spencer’s cooking was nearly as good as his mouth, so it wasn’t like Brendon was _losing_ here. 

Spencer’s kitchen was like a chef’s wet dream, straight from the set of a cooking channel series. It was huge and wide open, painted a cheerful blue and yellow. There were counters around three walls, and an island bigger than Brendon’s entire _kitchen_. 

The sinks were made of copper, and the counters around them were at an angle to drain off. The entire room smelled of herbs, and there were several bunches hung up alongside various cooking accoutrement including pots and pans that Brendon knew had to cost more than a month’s rent at Brendon’s apartment. 

There was a breakfast nook tucked into a bay window, and an antique table of scrubbed wood, lined with use and age, though it looked well loved, but Spencer ushered Brendon over to the stools along the open end of the counter and sat him down. 

“You’re just vegetarian, right? Not vegan?” Spencer asked, going to his refrigerator—some gigantic thing big enough to hold a couple bodies at least. “Are eggs okay?

Brendon’s eyes narrowed. “How did you know I was vegetarian? Did Jon say?” 

Spencer gave him an amused look. “I’m a chef. I notice what you eat and what you don’t. Like how whenever there’s seafood or meat in something, you give it to Jon or Alicia.” 

“I’m sorry,” Brendon said quickly. “It isn’t—I’m sure it’s really good, I just can’t…”

“Brendon,” Spencer said, peeking out of the fridge to pin him with a look. “It doesn’t bother me.” He grinned. “It just means more of a challenge.” 

“Eggs are okay,” Brendon said, instead of apologising again. 

“Good,” Spencer said, and came over with an armful of produce, slid a cutting board onto the counter in front of Brendon, and laid a garlic clove, chili pepper, and a fresh bunch of parsley alongside it. “Mince these.” 

“I don’t—what, precisely, does mince mean?” Brendon asked, baffled. He understood the word in the general sense, but he had the feeling if he tried to actually do it, he’d end up with a pile of mush on the cutting board. 

Spencer chuckled and grabbed a knife and the garlic and came to stand at Brendon’s side, their hips bumping. Brendon watched Spencer cut off the end and his slender fingers neatly discard the skin. “You cut it all horizontally first, then vertically, so it’s in long and thin pieces,” Spencer said, then he illustrated, so quickly Brendon almost couldn’t follow it. 

“Then you rock the knife, like this,” he minced the pieces, pausing every few strokes to swipe the blade across the board, drawing the garlic into a neat pile. The whole thing took a couple seconds. 

Usually Andrew did all the prep work with the vegetables (which had always confused Brendon, because everyone called Andrew the Butcher, except he never worked with meat…), and he was pretty impressive, but not like Spencer. Brendon felt himself blushing, wondering what else Spencer could do well with his hands. 

“Think you can handle it?” Spencer teased and Brendon rolled his eyes, though he knew his work wasn’t going to look anything like that. 

Spencer brought over his own ingredients to work alongside him. Brendon was curious of the myriad vegetables, nuts and herbs, and the occasional dish of savoury juices. They worked together in companionable silence, Spencer pausing now and then to give Brendon a new task, or showing him how to do something correctly. Brendon didn’t _mind_ cooking, but he’d never been very good at anything that didn’t come out of a box. This was fun, though, and oddly satisfying. 

The first dish Spencer presented he called aubergine caviar, served with a glass of petite syrah. Spencer laid out warm crostinis, fresh from the oven and laced little dollops of the mixture in the centre of each, sprinkling Brendon’s minced chili overtop. 

It looked pretty good, though Brendon couldn’t figure out the name, since there _wasn’t_ any caviar involved. Still, he parted his lips when Spencer held one out, making sure he caught the tip of Spencer’s finger in the process. Spencer’s eyes flashed, but otherwise he didn’t react, holding out the wine glass for Brendon to sip as soon as he’d swallowed. 

Brendon didn’t know much about wine, other than he generally liked it, but the combination was fucking _amazing_. Usually red wine made his mouth feel dry, but this didn’t, and now he could taste all these flavours he hadn’t before—the thyme, and some sort of nut. 

“The tannins in the syrah are moderated by the bitterness of the eggplant,” Spencer explained. 

“You are a god,” Brendon moaned, and Spencer was silent long enough to make him worry and look, but Spencer was watching him like _Brendon_ was dinner and got a private little smirk on his face when Brendon caught him. 

“That’s just the appetizer,” was all he said, and he turned to tend to one of the simmering pots on the stovetop. 

There was tofu crusted in coconut and deep fried, drizzled with raspberry sauce and green onions, served with some bubbly drink flavoured of orange and pomegranate. Brendon was a fan of tofu anyway, but he’d never known it could be so silky smooth, melting in his mouth. 

This was followed by two separate entrées—a Thai curry made of some bumpy green fruits Brendon had never seen before and little cakes of rice and lentils served with chutney and dry pinot grigio to counter the spiciness of the dish. The fruit looked strange, but Spencer had never let Brendon down food-wise before, so he took a bite. “This is…fruit?” It tasted more like chicken, and had the texture of it, too. 

“How can you be a vegetarian and not know what jackfruit is?” Spencer demanded in a scandalised tone of voice. “What do you _eat_?” 

“Shut up,” Brendon said without any force behind it because _holy fuck_ , he had to marry Spencer, and only eat his cooking for the rest of forever. 

After Brendon had sampled that to his content, Spencer brought out the last savoury dish from the fridge, a bowl full of yellow liquid and what looked like a potato. A seriously tiny, deformed, disgusting potato. Spencer caught him staring and waved it under his nose. “It’s a truffle,” he said. Brendon mostly smelled earth, but he didn’t want to be rude. There had to be a reason they were so expensive. 

“I thought you said truffles were out of season,” Brendon said. 

“Whatever Ryan Ross wants, Ryan Ross gets,” Spencer said. “And I set some aside for tonight.” He produced a tiny instrument like a potato peeler, but more complicated and began to shave slivers from the truffle. 

“You wait to shave the truffle until just before cooking,” Spencer explained. “That way you can fully appreciate the scents.” 

“Uh huh,” Brendon said, arching a brow. 

Spencer ignored his expression. “Do you know the reason the female pig is used to sniff out truffles?” Brendon shook his head. Now that Spencer had begun to shave away the skin, a heady, musky scent was filling the air. “There is a compound in the truffle which is quite similar to the pheromone given off by the boar.” 

“Sexy,” Brendon leered, breathing in more deeply. 

Spencer darted him a quick look. “It is,” he said. “The Romans were the first to use truffles as an aphrodisiac. But even today, it is difficult for even the best trained chef to find a word to describe their taste that does not pertain to sex.” 

“Oh?” Brendon asked. 

Spencer paused in the process of mixing the shavings in with the yellow liquid. He poured Brendon a glass of the last, untouched bottle of dark red wine and nodded at it. “It has the flavour of the truffle. Take a sip.” 

Brendon did so, holding a bit on his tongue like Spencer had taught, inhaling the alcohol to leave behind just the flavour. It was smooth going down, with a thick, musky flavour that lingered in his mouth—a flavour he could only liken to one other thing he’d ever tasted. 

Spencer tucked a finger under Brendon’s chin, tilting his face up and opening his mouth with a slow kiss, his tongue rolling against Brendon’s in search of a taste. He pulled back with a sinful moan that went straight to Brendon’s cock. He’d been turned on for the past several hours, a low-grade thrum running through his veins. Now he was so hard he was _hurting_ for it. 

“They say it smells like certain…ah…scents produced during sex,” Spencer explained. Brendon nodded shakily. He took another sip and hooked his arm around Spencer’s neck, pulling him back down and sealing their mouths together even as he swallowed. Spencer’s hand shifted to cup his jaw and the scent of the truffle lingered, making the taste stronger. 

“Fuck,” Brendon breathed. “I want—will it keep?” 

Spencer nodded blindly, kissing and biting along Brendon’s jaw. “It’ll keep,” he panted. He pushed Brendon back against the counter, bending him toward the surface, sucking bruises onto the sensitive skin of his throat. Brendon whined, twining his fingers in Spencer’s hair and tugging him up. He just wanted to _taste_ Spencer, run his tongue all over, learn his flavour. 

He straightened up, pushing back against Spencer’s restraining hold and Spencer went with minimal struggle, let Brendon turn them around. Brendon’s hands fumbled between them, practically tearing the button from Spencer’s jeans. He could feel Spencer hard against his palm and it wasn’t enough, with layers of denim and cotton between them. Brendon yanked the zipper down and let his fingers brush the elastic of Spencer’s underwear. 

“Can I?” he asked. 

Spencer looked at him, pupils wide, gaze unfocussed and he said, “ _Are you serious_?” which was all the encouragement Brendon needed to drop down to his knees and tug Spencer’s jeans around his thighs. 

“Euros?” Brendon asked playfully, easing the elastic band of Spencer’s underwear down. 

“Shut up,” Spencer huffed, arching his back and tilting his hips forward. “I got them when I was _in_ Europe.” 

“Uh huh,” Brendon teased.

Spencer’s cock was hard, curving up toward his stomach. The head was already leaking with precome and Brendon flicked his tongue out to taste. Spencer’s thighs tensed and he let out a shaky sigh. Brendon gave another broad, teasing swirl of his tongue and Spencer grabbed his shoulder, fingers tight enough to bruise. He groaned, and Brendon gave in, fisting his hand around the base and swallowing what he could, then sucked gently. 

Brendon loved sucking cock. Past boyfriends had called him a cockslut and other not very nice things, but Brendon didn’t get what was wrong with liking cock. Wasn’t that the whole point of being gay? 

Spencer wasn’t loud, but he kept hissing curses and Brendon’s name under his breath, and fingers brushed against his cheek almost gently, thumb tugging at Brendon’s bottom lip. Brendon decided he _really_ liked sucking Spencer’s cock. It was thick and heavy on his tongue, and he was pretty sure with a little practice he could probably deep-throat it. He normally wasn’t into giving that much control away, but the thought of Spencer grabbing his hair and just fucking his mouth turned him on a _lot_. 

When his jaw started to ache, Brendon sat back on his heels, jerking Spencer off with a loose fist, nuzzling at the smooth, pale skin at the inside of Spencer’s thighs. He moved upward, pausing to suck at the hollow of Spencer’s hipbone, long enough that the skin turned dull purple with pinpricks of pink. 

Spencer slipped a hand through Brendon’s hair, cupping his skull and urging him upward. “Come here,” he murmured, and Brendon got to shaky feet, leaning his full weight against Spencer, hands falling on the counter for balance as they kissed. Spencer’s fingers splayed out over his back under his shirt, and then he was tugging it off and Brendon raised his arms to help before pulling at Spencer’s, too. 

The air in the kitchen was warm against his skin from all the cooking, but Brendon shivered anyway at the feel of Spencer’s bare skin pressed to his when they fell into another kiss. Spencer’s fingers were quick and sure unbuckling Brendon’s belt. Brendon helped by undoing and shimmying out of his jeans and boxer briefs and kicking them aside.

Spencer grabbed him by the waist and dragged Brendon to him. Brendon was growing accustomed to the way Spencer’s hands fit there, liked that Spencer was so much taller and broader. Brendon was used to dating guys his own size; he’d never liked the feeling of being dwarfed by his lovers. He wasn’t comfortable with trusting someone stronger than him not to hurt him. And it wasn’t even that Spencer was particularly gentle, but something about his touch, and the way he had to bend his neck to kiss Brendon, made Brendon feel safe. 

“We could go to bed,” Spencer offered between kisses. “Or the couch.” 

Brendon nodded distractedly, fingers tracing the lines of the muscles in Spencer’s back. “Beds are good,” he murmured. He’d discovered this spot on Spencer’s neck that he couldn’t stop biting and licking, and Spencer made a low sound in his throat and shoved Brendon back into the counter with his hips, pulling him up by his hair for a kiss. 

“I want to fuck you,” Spencer breathed against Brendon’s mouth. 

Brendon nodded, stealing another quick kiss, then two. “Me too,” he stuttered, “I mean, I want that, too.” 

Spencer smiled that breath-taking smile of his that made Brendon’s breath catch in his throat. He dropped a kiss to Brendon’s shoulder and pushed at Brendon’s waist, urging him to turn. Brendon went easily, eagerly, trembling with anticipation. 

Spencer’s fingers spread him open and Brendon waited nervously. It still caught him by surprise when Spencer touched him, not with his fingers but with his _tongue_ , wet and so hot, licking against his hole. Brendon hadn’t even realised Spencer had gotten to his knees and he let out an undignified noise, chest falling flat against the countertop. He wrapped his hands around the far edge, hanging on for dear life, unable to keep his hips from shifting back, pushing into the touch. Spencer chuckled against Brendon’s skin, and it was the oddest sensation he’d ever felt, and he never wanted it to stop. 

“ _Holy fuck_ ,” he gasped, and Spencer traced his tongue around the outside before pushing _in_ , and Brendon’s brain just checked out. He knew later he’d be mortified by how he was reacting, shoving his ass against Spencer’s face, babbling pleas and promises if Spencer just kept going. 

He was close, so fucking close, when Spencer slid a finger in alongside his tongue. Brendon didn’t even know what he was feeling, or how to begin to describe it, the different sensations almost too much to take, and he was going to come too soon. Then Spencer pulled back, trailing kisses up Brendon’s back as he stood. He added a second finger and they were both almost too dry, but then he curled them and Brendon twisted his hips down, trying to take more. Spencer’s breath was hot on Brendon’s neck, and his dick was poking against Brendon’s back. 

Brendon let his head fall back against Spencer’s chest. He reached behind himself to wrap his hand around Spencer’s cock, lining him up. “Spence, I’m so close, I want you inside, come on.” Brendon barely recognised his own voice, thick with arousal and so desperate and unrestrained. 

Spencer grabbed his wrist and stepped back. “Turn around,” he said and Brendon practically tripped over his own feet to obey. Spencer’s hands were back on Brendon’s waist actually _lifting him up_ and sitting him on the countertop. 

Brendon’s eyes tracked the movement as Spencer picked up a glass bottle and spilled the oil inside onto his palm. He slicked his hands together and reached between Brendon’s legs again. Brendon spread his legs and braced his feet on the stools, using them as leverage to push back when Spencer opened him up with three fingers this time, the slight sting only adding to Brendon’s excitement. He bit his lip against a moan and said, “I’m ready, Spencer, please, come _on_.” 

“Impatient?” Spencer paused in sliding out of his jeans and underwear to give Brendon an amused look. 

“ _Yes_ ,” Brendon snapped. He tucked his foot behind Spencer’s knee and forced him a step closer. 

Spencer fished around in his pocket and pulled out a foil wrapper and Brendon was glad to know that he wasn’t the only one who’d planned on the evening leading to this. Spencer tore the condom open and rolled it on, spreading the oil on with a few quick strokes. Then he stepped between Brendon’s open thighs and guided his cock to Brendon’s opening. 

It had been _months_ since Brendon had slept with anyone and Spencer was longer and thicker than Brendon had ever had, and there was a moment where he worried it was going to hurt too much. Spencer went slowly and stroked a hand up Brendon’s chest and rubbed at the back of his neck and Brendon kept his eyes closed and arched up for a kiss. Then the initial pressure gave and Spencer slid the rest of the way in in one smooth thrust. 

Spencer hid his face in Brendon’s throat, catching his breath. “Jesus, Brendon,” he said, “you’re so fucking tight.” He sounded as though he was in pain and Brendon was going to apologise except Spencer shifted, drawing back just a couple inches and rocking in again, and Brendon’s voice died in a faint whine at the sensation. 

“Put your legs around me,” Spencer said, and when Brendon couldn’t quite get his limbs to agree, Spencer helped, guiding Brendon’s legs up and over his hips. The angle let Spencer slide in deeper. Brendon had never felt so stretched open, so possessed by someone else, and rather than struggle against it as was his normal instinct, he clung to Spencer’s shoulders and kissed him desperately, licking into Spencer’s mouth. 

Spencer moved in slow, hard thrusts. He would pull all but the tip out and he angled himself just right that every time he pushed back inside he rubbed against Brendon’s prostate. Brendon was pretty sure that he could come just like this, without anyone touching his dick, but he’d been waiting for _hours_ and he didn’t want to wait any longer. He reached down to touch himself and Spencer leaned back to watch. 

Brendon teased his fingers around the head, spreading the moisture, and gave a few loose strokes before tightening his fist. When he picked up the pace, Spencer did too, fucking him faster, his thrusts turning shallow. 

“Fuck, Spence,” he managed, breath coming short and frantic, “don’t stop, please, just like that.” He always babbled when he was about to come. Spencer knocked Brendon’s hand aside and wrapped his own tightly around Brendon’s cock. He pressed his thumb just under the head and then flattened it over the tip and Brendon groaned as he came in hot strips over his chest and Spencer’s fist. 

Spencer moaned and fucked him through it, losing his rhythm. Brendon locked his ankles behind Spencer’s back and squeezed, drawing him in deeper. A boneless lethargy spread over him, but he wanted Spencer there with him. He let his hands shift over Spencer’s shoulders, dragging his nails roughly down Spencer’s back. Spencer shivered at the sensation and jerked and bit down on Brendon’s collarbone as he came. 

Brendon tried to keep holding on, but the muscles in his legs wouldn’t listen to him. He slumped back on his elbows and his legs slipped down to dangle uselessly off the counter. Spencer lifted his head and sought out Brendon’s mouth for a slow, sleepy kiss, pulling back before Brendon was ready for it to end. 

“So, about that bed of mine,” Spencer murmured, and Brendon laughed, ending on a gasp when Spencer pulled free from his body. 

“Does it come attached to a room with bath?” Brendon asked. 

“It does, in fact,” Spencer said, disposing of the condom. “A room which, given its name, seems to have been created for the very purpose of containing a bath.” 

Brendon smacked him lightly on the chest and Spencer grabbed his wrist, hauling him down from the countertop. Brendon stumbled up against Spencer’s chest and looked up at him shyly. Spencer ran his hand through the hair that had fallen in Brendon’s face and said, “Stay the night?” 

And Brendon didn’t want to rush it or expect too much because he wanted so desperately for this to work out. But he also really wanted to stay the night. “Yeah,” he said. “I—yeah.” 

Spencer’s mouth curled up in a purely happy smile and he led Brendon upstairs. 

~*~

They showered together in Spencer’s fucking ridiculous Roman shower made of warm golden and ivory coloured marble and a third wall of glass. Brendon had some serious fucking plans for this shower, and all the things he could do to Spencer in it, particularly with the built-in bench along one of the walls. 

Spencer had these robes, soft and thick like something from those exorbitantly overpriced five-star hotels, and he gave one to Brendon. It smelled spicy and exotic, like Spencer’s shampoo, and Brendon wondered if there was a way he could sneak the robe home without Spencer knowing, and just sleep in it forever. 

Though there were bedrooms on the second floor as well, Spencer kept his on the third floor at the back of the house, where French doors opened onto a terrace with a view of the lake. The room, like most of the rest of the house, looked like something out of a movie or magazine. 

There were all these gorgeous, interesting dressers and shelves filled with mementos from around the world, and lots of small lamps so the light in the room was warm and unassuming. The bed was a cherry sleigh-style with crisp-looking sheets and more pillows than could ever be necessary. The little boy in Brendon wanted to just dive into them. 

Spencer opened the terrace doors to let in a cool breeze and they curled up under the covers and watched some stupid reality dating game. It wasn’t Brendon’s normal choice, but it was surprisingly enjoyable, making fun of the contestants and feeling Spencer’s chest rumble with laughter under his cheek. 

Around ten, Spencer went back downstairs, and Brendon took the chance to call Emily and make sure it was all right to leave Bogart there for the evening. Then Spencer came back with champagne and a dessert that smelled heavenly. There were poached pears in a warm vanilla sauce over cinnamon ice cream, and more of it ended up on their bodies and the sheets than in their mouths, but Brendon had a fun time licking the melting trickles that found their way down Spencer’s chest. 

This time, when he went down on Spencer, when Spencer was close and straining into Brendon’s touch, thrusting his hips off the sheet, Brendon sucked his fingers in his mouth and twisted them into Spencer’s ass, and Spencer came in his mouth. The flavour was bitter in contrast with the sweet of dessert, but Brendon found he liked it, and sat back licking his lips. 

Spencer lay there catching his breath, staring at Brendon in something like wonder, and when he pounced, rolling Brendon beneath him to return the favour, Brendon felt like he was being paid devotion. Spencer took his time, bringing Brendon to the edge and then easing back over and over until Brendon’s thighs were trembling and his fingers were weak in Spencer’s hair, and he was begging shamelessly for release. 

“We should have held off on the shower thing,” Spencer murmured later, face smooshed in Brendon’s neck. 

“Mmm,” Brendon agreed, drawing patterns against the skin of Spencer’s back with his nails. “We could shower again?” Except for how he really didn’t think he _could_ move, let alone stay on his feet for any extended period of time. 

“Right,” Spencer said, voice wry. He got up and stumbled into the bathroom, returning with a washcloth, and made Brendon get up long enough to strip down the top sheet. 

They tumbled back into bed just after midnight, and Brendon was asleep within minutes, Spencer’s body warm and solid against his back. 

~*~

Brendon woke when Spencer got up from the bed, moving around in the early morning light from the bathroom to his closet. Mostly he wanted to burrow back under the covers and get another hour or so of sleep. A glance at the bedside clock told him it was a quarter past six, and if he wanted to get home, shower, change, and get to work on time, he was going to have to leave ten minutes ago. 

He was sitting up in bed when Spencer came out of his closet doing up a plain black button down. “Oh,” Spencer said, “If you wanna borrow some clothes, I can drop you off by the centre on my way to meet Greta.” 

Brendon didn’t want things to be awkward, but he wasn’t sure he knew _how_. “It—it isn’t a problem?” 

Spencer flashed him a smile. “Well, you are sort of tiny, but I think we can make it work.” 

“Shut up,” Brendon muttered, getting up from the bed and only blushing a little at his own nudity. It was fairly dark in the room; maybe Spencer didn’t even notice. 

“I laid out a few things that might work in the bathroom. Hurry your ass up and you can have breakfast, too.” Spencer caught Brendon on the way to the bathroom with an arm around his waist and kissed him even though Brendon had morning breath. 

“I’m supposed to be hurrying,” Brendon murmured against Spencer’s mouth, and Spencer let him go with a pinch on the ass. 

Brendon showered in ten minutes and dressed in a pair of Spencer’s jeans rolled up a few times, and a colourful t-shirt that looked like something Brendon would have bought for himself. For breakfast, Spencer had made the truffles and yellow mixture, which turned out to be fluffy, delicious eggs. Spencer rolled them up in some savoury pastry shells so they could take them in the car, and Brendon felt a little bad doing so, because the eggs were heavenly, and they deserved more time and attention. 

They made it to the centre with a couple minutes to spare and Brendon was startled when Spencer pulled him across the gearshift for a kiss, but relaxed into the touch after a moment. He parted from Spencer reluctantly, grabbing his bag from the back seat and turning to climb from the car. 

“You’re coming tonight, right?” Spencer asked, before Brendon could close the door. “You can talk to Pete and Patrick about what’s going on. You don’t have to decide—”

“I’ll be there,” Brendon told him, and smiled just so he could see Spencer’s answering grin. He ducked back into the car for another fast kiss and went into the centre with a bounce in his step and didn’t care how much everyone teased him for it. 

~*~

Brendon knew it was going to end pretty horribly. He just wasn’t sure _when_. For the first week or two, he saw disaster coming around every corner. That first night, the entire train ride to Panic!, Brendon couldn’t help but imagine what would happen when he arrived, how Spencer would tell him it was all a huge mistake and that it would be better if Brendon just left and they never saw each other again. 

Except then one week became two became a month. They didn’t have a lot of time for actual dating. Most nights they found a few minutes before the dinner rush at Panic! then went back to Brendon’s apartment or Spencer’s townhouse and got way less sleep than they needed. 

The first time Brendon brought out his papers at Spencer’s place, he thought Spencer would kick him out. His last boyfriend, back when he’d been working on his Ph.D., had always been angry when Brendon came over only to work on his thesis, saying he shouldn’t have bothered. Spencer just offered Brendon his office and ordered them Chinese. 

It turned out Spencer had a drum kit in his office, which took Brendon about two hours to notice. Spencer blushing and explaining about his and Ryan’s prep school era band was maybe the most adorable thing Brendon had ever seen. Spencer refused to actually play it but Brendon was determined to change his mind someday. 

They were both too busy on the anniversary of their first month to do anything special. Brendon didn’t usually mark such small occasions anyway. If they made it to six months, or a year, that might be something to celebrate, but he didn’t hold out hope. When he got to work that day, though, there was a small box of handmade chocolate truffles in different fruit flavours waiting in his locker. 

Brendon waited until after dinner to say anything, but he knew the others could tell he was in a good mood. He couldn’t stop smiling all night and kept playing upbeat numbers. Gabe and Bill shot him smirks and Jon had said that he should get laid regularly forever, because it did wonders for his mood. 

Normally it bothered Brendon to share details of his romantic relationships with others, but there was no privacy or decency at Panic! about such things, and Brendon had found he didn’t mind. He was actually, perplexingly, proud of managing to begin this whole thing with Spencer, and he didn’t mind the others teasing him in a good-natured sort of way. 

After the restaurant closed, Brendon went into the back and found Spencer in his office. “You didn’t have to give me anything, you know,” Brendon said. 

Spencer looked up and set aside his paperwork. He smiled, but it was tempered by tiredness. “Yeah, I did.” 

Brendon closed the door, already anticipating what the others would say, but Spencer leaned back in his seat, face lighting up subtly. Brendon was starting to understand how to read it. “But I didn’t get you anything,” he said. 

“I’m sure you can make it up to me,” Spencer said, pushing his chair back when Brendon came around the desk. 

“Are you propositioning me?” Brendon asked, aiming for affront with his tone. It came out more giggly. “I do believe that is sexual harassment.” 

Spencer grabbed him by the hips and pulled Brendon close. “Yeah, go complain to _Pete_ about it.” 

Brendon leaned down for a kiss, drawing it out longer than he’d intended. “You wanna come over?” he asked. More often than not, they ended up at Brendon’s apartment because of Bogart. Emily was pretty cool, but he didn’t want to piss her off by taking advantage of her help. 

Spencer nodded. “Give me twenty?” 

Brendon didn’t mind spending extra time at Panic!, especially after hours. He loved the atmosphere and low lighting; there was a feeling of calm that helped soothe Brendon at the end of the day. He would often take requests from the staff while they cleaned up, when waiting for Spencer. 

The streets were mostly empty on the drive home and Brendon closed his eyes, resting his head against the cool glass of the window. Spencer always had his iPod hooked up to the stereo, and right now it was playing something by Neutral Milk Hotel. It felt kind of perfect and domestic, and Brendon wanted to commit all the details to memory so he could have them to look back on when Spencer finally decided he’d had enough. 

“Hey,” Spencer said, when the car came to a stop at a red light. “Do you have any plans for next weekend?” 

It was the 4th of July on Friday and both the centre and the restaurant were closed for the holiday. Frank had said something about a picnic and fireworks in the park, but Brendon had secretly been hoping Spencer would have something planned, and had declined. 

“Why,” Brendon teased. “What did you have planned?” 

Spencer shot him an exasperated smile. “My parents invited us to their place for the weekend. Their house is up north on the lake, and they always get together with the neighbours to do a big firework show over the water.” 

Brendon’s heart dropped into his stomach. “I can’t go to your parents’ place! Spencer, the first and only time they ever met me, I flipped out on Ryan. I told you guys to fuck off. They _like_ Ryan.” 

“They love Ryan,” Spencer corrected. “Which is why they understand that it is sometimes necessary to tell him to fuck off.” 

“Spencer,” Brendon whined. “They’re going to hate me. I saw the way your mom and sisters were all like ‘oh, _that’s_ him,’ when Ryan introduced me. They probably think I’m some uncultured idiot. They’re probably going to warn me away from you.” 

“Jesus Christ, Brendon, we aren’t in some stupid movie. They were like that when Ryan introduced you because I’d told Crystal and Jackie that I _liked_ you. And they thought you were hot.” 

Brendon blushed and ducked his head. He wanted to apologise for overreacting, but he was so bad at that. “Look,” Spencer said, and put a hand on Brendon’s knee. Brendon stared at it for a moment before managing to cover it with his own hand. “I know Ryan didn’t give you the greatest perspective, but my family aren’t snobs, and they want another chance to meet you.” 

Brendon squirmed uncomfortably and Spencer sighed and took his hand back. They made the rest of the ride in silence, and when Spencer pulled into Brendon’s parking lot, Brendon expected Spencer to have changed his mind about coming up. They’d made it to a month. That was something, right? 

But Spencer parked the car and turned off the engine and said to him, “I don’t want you to do something you don’t want to do. So, you know, don’t worry. We can do something here. I think Greta said something about a firework show on the Pier.” 

Objectively, Brendon knew this was where he was supposed to say he’d changed his mind, but the thought of meeting Spencer’s family again filled him with dread. He nodded miserably. “I’m sorry, Spence. I just…I’m no good with people.” 

Spencer shrugged, and he looked unhappy, which just made Brendon even more miserable. “You’ll get better,” Spencer said, but Brendon wasn’t sure either of them believed it. Later in bed though, when Brendon’s anxiety over the whole thing was keeping him awake, Spencer pulled him close. It was too hot for cuddling, but Brendon was too thankful for the touch to care. “Stop worrying about it,” he murmured sleepily. “I’m not going anywhere.” And like that, sleeping wasn’t so difficult. 

~*~

Miraculously, they somehow made it to two months. Spencer hired a new chef to train for Greta’s position so that Greta could share the title of Head Chef with him, freeing up everyone’s schedules a little more. It would still be another month at least before training was far enough along for Spencer to regularly have a second day off each week, but Brendon found himself looking forward to the coming month rather than dreading it. 

Monday nights they had started going along with everyone else to Gabe and Bill’s parties, since Brendon had Tuesdays off from the centre. The first time he’d been nervous, but it had actually been very laid-back, with lots of booze, poor choice in movies, and more often than not, drunk scrabble with Bill, Pete, and Greta. 

Gabe would, without fail, come along to sit in Bill’s lap, saying he was on Bill’s team, and go from “helping” to somehow developing his own row of seven tiles and insisting that the things he put down on the board were real words. This had led to Pete establishing an “English only” rule. 

After the third Monday, Brendon was actually a bit sad that their schedule kept them from going more often, but Spencer was such a zombie on Tuesdays that he didn’t want to ask for more. It was nice, though, when Spencer would come back from the market and tumble into bed for a few hours longer. Brendon was usually awake by then, but he liked to stay in bed with a book or his work. 

Spencer’s birthday was just after their three-month anniversary, and they hadn’t really discussed it, but Brendon had a few ideas for how to celebrate when he received a call from an unknown number. Normally he’d just let it ring to voicemail and decide then whether or not to call back, so he had no reason why he picked it up this time saying dubiously, “Hello?” 

“Brendon?” a woman’s voice asked. “This is Ginger, dear.” 

“Oh,” Brendon said, wondering if he could pretend to be going through a tunnel or that his battery was dying, or something. 

“I’m sure you and Spencer have something planned for the second, but the family is having a little get-together on Wednesday and of course we want you to be there,” Ginger said. She sounded pleasant enough, but still. It didn’t change how things were. 

“That’s—that’s really nice of you, but I wouldn’t want to intrude. It sounds like a family thing, and—”

“It’s all very casual,” Ginger went on, as if he hadn’t spoken. “No need to dress up or bring anything. Anton is going to grill.” 

Anton, Brendon recalled, was the Smith’s cook. They had a cook. Because they couldn’t grill for themselves. Brendon resisted the urge to bury his face in his hands. “Mrs. Smith—”

“Ginger, dear,” she corrected. 

“Right,” Brendon said, avoiding the issue altogether. “I am so sorry about the incident at Ryan’s party.” 

Ginger made a distracted noise. “The girls will probably want a game of football, so I’d bring a change of clothing, if I were you. They can be quite ruthless.” 

“I just—I think the whole thing with Ryan just _proved_ that I’m not really—”

“Brendon,” Ginger said, suddenly serious. “I tend not to interfere with my children’s personal affairs. However, we are a close family, and Spencer seeing someone who insists on avoiding us will make things…difficult. It would be nice if we could get to know one another better. And perhaps after that happens, you will come to understand that no one blames you for the _incident_ with Ryan. Not even Ryan himself.” 

Brendon was silent, his heart pounding, and after a moment Ginger said, “Now, can I mark you down as a ‘yes?’” 

He thought of how much it would mean to Spencer for Brendon to come, and it was his _birthday_. Didn’t he deserve a little effort on Brendon’s part? And if Spencer’s parents were sincere in their interest to know him, it might be nice. Better than his own parents, at any rate.. 

“Yes,” he said. 

“Terrific,” Ginger said brightly. “Jackie’s coming up from the city. She can pick you up so it can be a surprise for Spencer.” 

“Okay,” Brendon said, then, “Thanks.” 

He could imagine Ginger’s smile, as bright as Spencer’s, when she said, “Thank _you_ , Brendon.” 

~*~

Brendon made a birthday cake for September 2nd. The thing was, he _couldn’t_ make a cake from a pre-made mix—Spencer probably hadn’t had anything made out of a store mix his entire life, and besides, he deserved more. Brendon’s skills at making a cake from scratch, however, were not so much. It came out looking lumpy, and the top piece fell apart when he took it out of the pan. It still tasted good, though; he’d used his mother’s recipe so it was sweet without being too rich, and moist. Plus, once he dressed it up with the hazelnut icing, Spencer maybe wouldn’t be able to tell how badly he’d messed up. 

In the end, it hardly mattered, because as soon as Spencer saw the cake he’d pinned Brendon to the counter and got down on his knees, while Brendon laughingly protested that it wasn’t _his_ birthday. 

“My parents are having a thing tomorrow,” Spencer said later, when they actually got around to eating the cake, Bogart sitting attentively at their feet in case they felt like sharing. 

“Mmm,” Brendon said, noncommittally. 

Spencer’s lips twisted up in a frown and he poked at the icing on his plate with his fork. Brendon wanted it to be a surprise, like Ginger had said, but he couldn’t bear making Spencer miserable on his birthday. He sighed. “Okay, look, you have to act surprised tomorrow.” 

“Okay?” Spencer said, arching a brow. 

Brendon rolled his eyes. “Your sister is picking me up after you leave tomorrow.” 

Spencer let out a startled burst of laughter. “You’re coming?” 

“You have to act _surprised_ ,” Brendon repeated. 

Spencer kissed him hard, biting at Brendon’s bottom lip until it stung. He muttered something unintelligible against Brendon’s mouth. Their plates were left forgotten on the coffee table and they stumbled blindly into Brendon’s bedroom, kissing all the way. Spencer pulled impatiently at Brendon’s shirt and Brendon broke away to get naked and catch his breath and fell back on the bed, waiting. 

Undressed, Spencer crawled up the bed, leaning Brendon back against the mattress and bending to give him another possessive kiss. Brendon fumbled for the lube and condoms on the nightstand, passing the latter to Spencer and smearing the lube over his own fingers. 

Spencer sat back to watch. Brendon didn’t really get it, but Spencer was seriously into watching Brendon finger himself open. He made a show of it, slick fingers circling his opening before barely pushing inside. It wasn’t the same as when Spencer did it—his fingers were thicker and longer and knew just how to drive Brendon crazy. Doing it to himself the angle was weird when he pushed deeper and stretched his fingers open. 

After only a few seconds, Spencer knocked Brendon’s hand away impatiently, sinking back down. He lined himself up and pushed in in one long, deep stroke that made Brendon’s eyes roll back in his head and his toes curl. 

Brendon had, over the years, had many lovers. A handful of them had even been really good at sex and he was totally a fan of that. It was different with Spencer, though. The other guys had all liked showing off so that even when it was good, it was never about Brendon. Spencer didn’t seem to know how to do it any other way. Sometimes it was too intense, the way Spencer liked to look Brendon in the eye as he fucked him, when Spencer asked what he wanted, what he needed. He’d never been shy in bed before, but there were nights when he felt that way with Spencer. 

Tonight Spencer was rough, yet beneath it there was tenderness, and it made Brendon’s throat ache with some unnamed emotion. He could only hold on and arch up to meet Spencer’s hungry kisses. His orgasm took him entirely by surprise, the shuddery pleasure spiking suddenly. Spencer made a startled, pleased sound, and didn’t last much longer himself. 

Brendon was all but asleep by the time Spencer went to use the bathroom and came back with a washcloth. Brendon rolled over to spoon up behind him, clasping his hands over Spencer’s chest. “I didn’t get to give you your present,” he mumbled sleepily. 

Spencer laid his hand over Brendon’s and tangled their fingers together. “Yeah, you did,” he said, and Brendon was too sex-addled and tired to even wonder what Spencer meant. He pressed his face into Spencer’s hair and breathed deep the smell of sweat and sex and shampoo that he’d already grown accustomed to, and fell asleep. 

~*~

Brendon wasn’t sure what to expect of Jackie. Spencer had shown him pictures, so Brendon knew that Jackie was the one with short blonde hair. She was going to law school at Northwestern, but was interning in the city, and planned to work at their father’s firm when she graduated. 

When he got home from work, Brendon changed his outfit at least six different times. Spencer had dressed in jeans and a button-down, but Brendon worried that whatever he chose would be too casual or too cheap-looking, or just plain wrong. He ended up stealing one of Spencer’s button-downs, figuring if Spencer was wearing it, it was safe. Then he worried if it was presumptuous to show up in Spencer’s clothing and took it off. 

Jackie was supposed to show up any minute, and he wanted to be ready and waiting, so he grabbed the first t-shirt in his closet, threw on his Never Say Never hoodie and ran down two flights of stairs to the street level. 

Though Spencer most often drove his BMW, he also had a Porsche and a Mercedes. Brendon was half expecting Jackie to show up in a fucking Ferrari or something, but instead she pulled up in a tiny Honda hybrid. She waved at him eagerly and Brendon made his feet carry him to the curb. 

She looked a lot different from how she had at Ryan’s engagement party—still pretty and polished in her designer jeans and camisole, but more like a college co-ed than a millionaire heiress. “Hey, ready to go?” 

Brendon nodded, swallowing the rising bile in his throat and buckling himself in. Jackie flashed him a smile before zipping back into traffic. Her radio was playing softly and she tapped her fingers against the steering wheel to the beat. When she caught Brendon looking, she gave him a sheepish look. 

“Sorry, I know it’s annoying. It drives my boyfriend insane. You can change the CD, if you want.” 

“No,” Brendon said quickly. “I like Lady Gaga.” 

“Oh, cool,” Jackie said, and turned it up a little. “I thought, maybe…Spence said how you liked a lot of classical stuff—”

“I like a lot of different music,” he interrupted, and then wanted to shoot himself, because seriously? Way to reinforce that he was a manner-less asshole. 

Jackie didn’t seem to mind. “Yeah, well, Crystal and Mom are always on my ass about my musical taste.” She gave Brendon a wry smirk that looked like Spencer’s. “So, hey, I can’t believe you’re _that_ Brendon. Like, we’d all heard Spencer talk about you, but when he said you worked at the Hale Centre, I was like, _small world_. My friend Keltie works there, and she was telling me about this guy Brendon who played all these instruments.” She pulled a silly face. “Of course I didn’t put it together.” 

“You know Keltie?” Brendon asked, unable to keep the disbelief from his voice. 

“Well, yeah. I mean, I know everyone at the centre. Okay, the people who’ve been there at least a couple years—I haven’t been to one of the galas since undergrad.” 

Brendon assumed she meant the annual fundraising gala the centre threw every winter. He’d been to last year’s after working at the centre less than a month, and spent most of the evening hiding in his office. He’d been worried his awkwardness would be enough to lose the centre money, rather than gain it. 

Jackie caught his look and said, “My grandma was friends with Rebecca Hale. Our family has always donated. I’m surprised Spencer didn’t tell you.” 

Brendon wasn’t really _surprised_ , but he was a bit confused. He wondered how long the drive was to the Smith’s home; he’d feel better once he spoke to Spencer about it. 

They rode in silence for a few minutes, and Jackie got on the highway going north. It was still early enough for them to just miss afternoon rush hour. Brendon stared out the window at the skyline blurring past and tried to think of something to say so that Jackie wouldn’t see him for the freak he was. 

“Spencer says you’re from Vegas, too?” Jackie asked in the silence. 

“Summerlin,” Brendon confirmed. A little different from the penthouse suite in the middle of the strip that Spencer and his family had lived in. 

“How long have you been here?” she asked. 

She was trying, Brendon knew, and it was only fair for him to make an effort, too. “Since last November.” 

“Jeez, nice timing. The winters here, man. I don’t normally miss Vegas, but…”

Brendon chuckled, remembering the first time he’d experienced the famed Lake Effect, stepping outside his apartment to find it had snowed almost a foot in six hours. “Yeah, uh. I used to get by in Philadelphia by layering my hoodies. Not so much here.” 

“Shit, you’re lucky you didn’t _die_ of like, pneumonia or something,” Jackie said, sounding impressed. 

“Actually, funny story,” Brendon said, and began to relate to her the story of his Christmas vacation spent in urgent care. The bills from that had been part of his reason for looking for extra work. 

They fell into a fairly easy conversation from there, and Brendon was surprised by how brief the trip was. Twenty minutes after getting onto the highway they exited and ten minutes later they were pulling into a private, gated driveway. The trees lining the drive were just starting to change their colour, and beyond, the lawn stretched out seemingly forever in one direction, to the lake on the other. 

Brendon had thought, having seen Spencer’s home and lifestyle, that he was prepared for this. He so wasn’t. The mansion was _huge_. If he had to guess, Brendon would imagine there were over forty rooms in the place. He didn’t really know much about architecture, but it looked like something out of northern Europe with its multilayered mansard roof, arched windows, and stone façade climbed by ivy. 

Jackie drove around the curve of the paved driveway to the front of the house where a man came out to meet them and take the car. Brendon followed her up the path to the house, unable to help but look all around him at the decadence. The garden was full of exotic flowers still in bloom and sculptures that looked like they belonged in museums. 

The inside was even more impressive than the outside, and Brendon would have paid better attention to all the gorgeous artwork and marble floors and high ceilings with mosaic skylights if he hadn’t been having a panic attack. 

They came out on a sprawling patio where an intimate canopy had been set up and Spencer was laughing with Ginger and Ryan. Brendon didn’t really notice whether or not Spencer did a good job of acting surprised. He was too busy concocting an escape plan. Spencer excused himself and took Brendon by the arm, leading him into a busy kitchen and down a set of stairs to the wine cellar. 

“You okay?” he asked. 

Brendon looked around the room in muted astonishment. “There have to be, like over a thousand bottles of wine in here,” he said dumbly. 

Spencer glanced around them impatiently. “Is this about the house?” 

“The _house_?” Brendon demanded. “This isn’t a house, Spencer, this is a fucking—fucking castle. And why didn’t you tell me your family donates money to the centre?” 

“I…” Spencer stopped, obviously caught off-guard. “I didn’t want to tell you, once I realised where you worked. I thought you might think I was just saying it to impress you or something.” 

Brendon distantly thought it was kind of sweet, but he couldn’t really feel much over the pounding of his heart in his head. “Hey,” Spencer said, and kissed Brendon slowly until Brendon couldn’t focus on anything but Spencer’s tongue against his and Spencer’s familiar taste. When they parted, he felt a little less lightheaded. “You gonna be okay?” 

“Don’t let go of my hand,” Brendon whispered, and Spencer just squeezed tighter and led Brendon back upstairs. 

No one commented on Brendon’s little freak-out, for which he was infinitely grateful. Ryan approached them and Brendon felt himself go tenser, if that was possible. “I see things have resolved themselves,” Ryan said, in an enigmatic way, and Brendon had no idea what he meant, but it didn’t sound mean. “I’m happy for you.” 

“Thanks,” Brendon said blandly. 

Ryan shifted uncomfortably and Elaina elbowed him in the ribs. “Look, you can’t have the corner on being socially awkward,” Ryan blurted. 

Brendon felt his eyes go wide and Spencer said, “That isn’t an apology, Ross.” 

“He’s my best friend, and I’m a little protective, that’s all,” Ryan went on, fussing with his bracelets rather than looking at any of them. “But you seem cool. I mean. You have my approval, or whatever.” 

“Wow, that’s a relief,” Brendon muttered dryly, but Ryan caught his eye, and suddenly they were both grinning. He relaxed his hold on Spencer’s hand a little. 

“Brendon,” Ginger said, coming over to greet him with a hug that made his shoulders want to climb to his ears. He was very proud of himself for keeping still and even bringing his free hand up briefly to her back. “Let me show you around the gardens.” 

“Mom,” Spencer complained. “He doesn’t want to see the gardens.” 

“No,” Brendon said, “I would. Thank you, Mrs. Sm—Ginger.” He made his fingers release Spencer’s and followed Ginger along the paved path of the patio and down the stairs to the freshly clipped lawn. 

Ginger managed to show him her herb garden, the English garden and was leading him to the heart-shaped hedge maze when Jeffery caught up with them and insisted on showing Brendon his _golf course_. And maybe Brendon had a skewed perspective, given how formal and distant his own parents had been, but the Smiths weren’t at all how Brendon had imagined they’d be. 

Jeffery liked to talk about the old car he was restoring, and when he discovered Brendon was a fan of classic rock began to grill him over Bon Jovi versus Bruce Springsteen. Ginger kept interjecting her opinion based purely on the physical attributes of both. As laid-back as they were, Brendon kept censoring his answers, trying to find a posture of which they would approve. He practically crumpled in relief when they got back to the patio and Spencer. 

Dinner was nice and casual. Luckily Ryan, Jackie, and Jeffery were quite happy to carry on the majority of the conversation. They all took it upon themselves to tell Brendon stories about all the crazy stunts Spencer had pulled as a child. Ginger promised that there would be pictures to go along with the embarrassing stories later. 

Somewhere in the middle of dessert, Brendon remembered with sudden clarity that moment, now over three months ago, when he’d watched them all dining at Ryan’s engagement party and longed to be a part of it. Jon had told him he had no one to blame for his isolation but himself, and Brendon had never really seen it that way until just now, when he realised he could have had this all along. They hadn’t cared about his job or where he was from. They had tried to welcome him, and he’d been the one fighting it. 

_I’m going to be better,_ he told himself with conviction. _I’m going to deserve Spencer_. 

Jeffery finished a story about trying to teach Spencer to drive a manual transmission that involved Spencer’s inability to use a clutch or distinguish between second and third, and ended with them stalled in the middle of an intersection in the middle of Vegas, being propositioned by a hooker. 

Brendon repeated his new motto in his head and leaned forward, forcing himself to speak. “Not as bad as when my sister tried to teach me. I almost hit someone’s garage. I ended up driving down the road with her shifting gear, shouting _clutch_ at me every time,” he said. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Spencer looking cautiously pleased that Brendon was willingly engaging in the conversation. His stomach was still uneasy with nerves, but Spencer’s face made him keep talking. 

~*~

In October, Brendon switched his day off at the centre from Saturday to Wednesday, so he and Spencer had two days off together in a row. 

Brendon had only moved to the city after accepting his job at the centre and he hadn’t had much chance to explore it over the winter and spring. Now he and Spencer spent their days off at various museums and galleries, or hunting out hidden gems of restaurants in the heart of the city. Spencer wasn’t as picky as Brendon had expected he’d be when it came to others’ cooking, and he liked letting someone else do the hard work. 

Spencer loved music as much as Brendon did, and most of the same things, too. They were both open to new things, and Patrick was always telling them about new bands and inviting them to shows. Spencer, on the occasion of their four-month anniversary, presented Brendon with season box seats to the symphony. 

They were hard to accept; Brendon knew that Spencer was obscenely rich and used to a certain kind of lifestyle, but Brendon didn’t know how to deal with it. Spencer’s tendency to pick up the check at dinner at dinner had led to more than one argument, which usually ended with them going back to their own apartments because they were both seriously stubborn. 

Brendon was so used to taking care of himself, he couldn’t imagine letting someone else care for him. He went grudgingly to the first performance only because he couldn’t bear wasting such an exorbitant amount of money by being petulant. By intermission, he realised there was no point in being petulant anymore, and he didn’t put up a fight over making the most out of their box seats for the rest of the season. 

It helped that Spencer always got dolled up. Brendon’s favourite was when Spencer wore his traditional tux with its satin-edged lapels and neat bowtie, platinum and sapphire cufflinks flashing whenever he pushed back his hair. As much as Brendon loved the music, perhaps his favourite part of the evening was undressing Spencer afterwards. 

At the end of October Frankie had a big birthday-slash-Halloween party and insisted that Brendon bring Spencer. Brendon might have been anxious about it three months ago, but now it seemed really strange that his friends at the centre hadn’t properly met Spencer yet. 

Most perplexing was the fact that a lot of people from Panic! were at the party. He got different stories from everyone, but the most reliable said that Ryland and Gabe used to be in a band together, Patrick had been roommates with Frank and his friend Bob, and apparently, both Gabe and Pete had dated Gerard’s younger brother. Brendon thought it might get awkward, but no one seemed to care, least of all the three involved. Pete introduced Alicia to Mikey and said he expected to be part of the wedding party. 

Brendon got sick the first week of November and called off both jobs for the day. He had the sort of work ethic that generally didn’t stop, but he wasn’t about to risk the health of the children, nor cause any problems with diners who were put off by his hacking cough and runny nose. 

He texted Spencer not to come over, took a hot shower, rubbed Vicks over his chest, and passed out on the sofa with Bogart warming his feet. When he woke up it was dark outside and the light was on in the kitchen. He stumbled in, rubbing his eyes blearily, to find Spencer at the stove. 

“What day is it?” he asked, confused, blinking at the clock. It was almost eight in the evening. 

Spencer chuckled and pulled him close with one arm, pressing a kiss to his hair. “It’s Monday.” 

“What about the restaurant? I thought I told you not to come over,” Brendon groused, voice muffled by Spencer’s shirt. 

“If I hadn’t decided to come over myself, Greta and Adam probably would have kicked my ass,” Spencer said. Whatever he was stirring on the stove smelled _amazing_. 

“You shouldn’t let your employees push you around so much,” Brendon teased. 

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Spencer muttered. “Go back and lay down. This’ll be ready in a minute.” 

“You spoil me too much,” Brendon said. 

“It’s sort of in my job description, as your boyfriend,” Spencer said, rolling his eyes. 

Brendon still got a little stupid when Spencer used the word “boyfriend,” and he went back into the living room without further argument. Spencer brought in the soup along with a teapot and a bag from the pharmacy with three different medicines, tissues, and cough drops. Brendon sipped a spoonful of the soup and could taste pomegranate, lime, and coriander. Since beginning to date Spencer, Brendon had grown quite good at discerning different flavours in a complex meal. 

“Anton used to make that for us when we got sick,” Spencer explained. 

Brendon stirred his spoon around for a moment, having an argument with himself in his head before speaking. “My mom used to make us this Hawaiian soup when we were sick. She was from there, you know.” Of course, Spencer didn’t, because Brendon never really spoke of his family. 

Spencer was silent for a moment, no doubt startled by Brendon willingly bringing up his family or his past. Then all he said was, “I could learn how to make it.” 

Brendon shook his head and swallowed another mouthful of Spencer’s soup. “I’d rather have yours. It has better associations.” 

Spencer pulled Brendon up against his side and hid his face in Brendon’s neck. His lips moved against Brendon’s neck in words, and while he made no sound, Brendon’s mind raced with thoughts as to what he might be saying. He felt light-headed, and didn’t know if it was the sickness or something else. 

Despite Brendon’s protests, Spencer spent the night and lay close, even though Brendon was burning hot to the touch. The next day, when Brendon was so weak he could barely stand up on his own, Spencer helped him in the shower and waited on him hand and foot all day long. He took care of Bogart and fixed meals and cuddled Brendon while they watched the entire first season of Buffy. 

Brendon had never made it past five months in a relationship, and he was nearing that point with Spencer. He’d never before let himself think ahead, or hope for more than what he had in the present, but it was times like this when his head was pillowed on Spencer’s stomach and Spencer was playing with his hair even though it was sweaty and gross, that Brendon wanted to be able to think it in terms of permanence. 

~*~

One night at Panic! Spencer suggested bringing Bogart to his place. “Margaret could let him out during the day, and he’d have a yard to run around in,” Spencer said, in this anxious tone. 

Really, it hadn’t been much of a question. Brendon had already been feeling guilty about how little time he got to spend with his dog. Even though they more often went to his place, Spencer’s home was closer to Panic!; it _would_ be great for Bogart to be able to run around in the yard whenever he wanted, not just when Brendon had time to take him to the doggie park. 

Bogart went a little crazy at first. Brendon was secretly terrified that Bogart would tear the stuffing from one of Spencer’s crazy expensive sofas, or piss on the carpet, or scratch the hardwood floors. Mostly he just ran around like a maniac for a few hours then passed out in the sunlight by the huge windows in the front sitting room. 

Once Bogart had settled in at Spencer’s place, Brendon found himself going home to his own apartment less and less. When he did, he felt listless and depressed. Sometimes he made himself spend the night there alone, just to remind himself of what it was like to be alone, so that when Spencer broke up with him, it didn’t come as too much of a shock to be in an empty bed again. 

On the Tuesday before Thanksgiving they stayed in bed late, watching the rain outside pound against the French doors. Brendon was still sticky and slightly damp from their unhurried morning sex and Spencer was lying close, tracing patterns on Brendon’s back. He leaned in to press a kiss to Brendon’s shoulder blade and said, “I love you.” 

Brendon’s heart did something funny in his chest, surging high and then plummeting. Hot-cold tingles of panic rippled all through him, making his hands feel numb. He thought, _I can’t say it, I can’t say it_ , but entirely without the permission of his brain, his hand reached over his shoulder to grab Spencer’s hand and drag it to his lips. 

_I can’t_ , he thought, and he said, “I love you, too.” His eyes stung, and his breathing went erratic, but he _meant_ it. He wanted to say it every minute, almost more than he wanted to hear it. “I love you,” he said, more softly. 

He’d never exchanged the words with another person besides his parents and siblings, and he didn’t really know what to expect to follow. The movies and novels always made it seem like some grand declaration, but this felt understated and natural, and maybe that was better. 

Spencer wrapped Brendon tighter in his arms and they watched the grey morning in silence. 

~*~

Brendon moved into Spencer’s house in January. At the time, he hadn’t been back to his own apartment in almost a month and had more clothes at Spencer’s place than hanging in his own closet. 

He’d been rushing around early one morning because he’d forgotten to pick up some piece of music from his apartment and was going to be late, and Spencer was watching him with vague amusement from the bed. Spencer had said, “Move in with me,” and Brendon had paused with one foot in his jeans. 

“You practically live here anyway,” Spencer said quickly. “It doesn’t make sense to keep paying rent when you’re never there, and I have plenty of room for all your things. You could turn one of the bedrooms into a music room. The yellow room on the second floor has great acoustics—”

Brendon climbed on the bed, straddling Spencer’s lap. “Aren’t I the one who’s supposed to get all ramble-y when discussing our relationship?” he asked. 

Spencer laid a hand over Brendon’s throat, curling his fingers behind his ear. “I really want you to move in,” he said. 

Brendon’s heart was pounding wildly; Spencer had to feel it against his palm, but he didn’t comment. He’d stopped worrying daily (hourly) about Spencer breaking up with him, but this…he wanted it so badly, but if something went wrong, then what? 

He thought of seeing all his things scattered among Spencer’s, and of telling his family his new address, of somehow making it all a little less temporary. He let out a sigh; he was going to be so late for work. 

“You have to let me cover half of the bills,” he said. Spencer nodded quickly. “And I want to do my own laundry.” 

“It’s Margaret’s job,” Spencer protested. “I pay her for it.” 

“Yeah, well,” Brendon said, with dignity, “my _mom_ stopped doing my laundry when I was twelve. And besides, she can still do your laundry.” 

“You know, it would conserve water if you’d just let her do both our laundry together,” Spencer said slyly. 

Brendon jabbed a finger at Spencer’s chest and opened his mouth to argue, only to find he didn’t have anything to say. Damn Spencer, knowing all of Brendon’s weaknesses. “And I don’t want any of your bullshit when I’m trying to fucking cook.” 

“If you just sifted the flour, first,” Spencer started.

Brendon cut him off with a kiss, laughing as their mouths pressed together. “I love you,” he said, against Spencer’s lips. 

“Me too,” Spencer murmured, and rolled them over. Brendon was seriously late for work, but he didn’t have any appointments until after ten, so it was okay.

So Brendon moved in, and things weren’t much different from how they had been, except that Brendon felt more relaxed in general, not having to worry about his apartment. Spencer’s house was at a more central location in the city, and besides the yard there were lots of places to take Bogart on walks, and the yellow room really was perfect for a music room. 

Spencer wanted to hire a moving company and Brendon absolutely refused to allow it, or to spend the money. In the end, Brendon rented a moving truck and pretty much everyone from the centre and from Panic! pitched in. Jackie came too, but she and Bill mostly watched and sipped martinis in the backyard. 

After all of Brendon’s things had been moved in, Spencer insisted Brendon redecorate the room how he wanted. Brendon might have protested, except that while Spencer’s grandmother had been, from all accounts, a totally kickass woman, her taste in decorating had been a bit too feminine and old-fashioned for his tastes. 

They were at an interior decorator’s studio, flipping through a book of wallpaper samples, when Spencer happened upon a pattern for a nursery. It had wide yellow and green stripes with zoo animals and alphabet blocks. Spencer stroked a finger over the textured paper and said, “Did you ever want children?” 

“ _Yes_ ,” Brendon said, automatically and vehemently, before realising that Spencer hadn’t exactly expressed his own desire for them in asking. He bit his lip, ready to retract his statement, or at least modify it. 

But Spencer just smiled and said, “Me too.” 

“Oh,” Brendon said. His shoulders relaxed and he leaned into Spencer’s side. “That’s good.” 

Spencer turned another couple pages of and tapped his finger against a cream and red Asian-themed print. “What do you think of this one for redoing our bedroom?” 

Brendon laid his head on Spencer’s shoulder and thought, _our bedroom_. He waited for the feeling of panic and anxiety that always came when thinking of permanence. It never came.

“It’s perfect,” he said. _fin_

**Author's Note:**

> Various music links:  
> What Brendon performs to shut up Pete, Liszt’s Sonata in B Minor, here in four parts. This one is quite long, but really, really worth it. Just be more patient than Pete, okay? http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rOSIlXnM7Co  
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T_ftRDZeqRw&feature=related  
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PdhytVvJqZA&feature=related  
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Id5zPCP9oW8&feature=channel
> 
>  
> 
> Chopin’s piano nocturne #19 in E minor. I prefer Val Kilmer’s performance in Tombstone because of the emotion of the piece, but that has people talking over it and the piano being played is badly out of tune. Here is a very nice substitute:  
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aSzKo2FcS_g  
> And here’s the Kilmer, if you wanna hear:  
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Z7ATsISwrU
> 
>  
> 
> The more upbeat song he plays, Liszt’s piano etude #3:  
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v9fo3FoHDBc
> 
>  
> 
> Mauro Giuliani grand overture on classical guitar:  
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k0b5LHHwyZw  
> and etude in D:  
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=799YNqId7jE
> 
>  
> 
> And Carulli’s Siciliana on classical guitar:  
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9dp8Phgp4vY
> 
>  
> 
> Recipes:
> 
>  
> 
> The food is mostly from my gourmet dining experience, or my imagination. However, here are a few recipes if you’re interested.  
> [Aubergine Caviar](http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/life_and_style/food_and_drink/recipes/article2027713.ece)  
> [Poached Pears](http://www.grouprecipes.com/10331/cinnamon-poached-pears.html)  
> [Jackfruit Curry](http://thaifood.about.com/od/vegetarianthairecipes/r/jackfruitcurry.htm)  
> [Idil](http://www.thokalath.com/cuisine/breakfast.php)  
> [Eggs with Truffle](http://www.kaitsplate.com/2009/01/barefoot-contessas-scrambled-eggs-with.html)


End file.
